Star Wars: Brother Against Brother
by Draft
Summary: This is a story beyond the Force and back to the people who bore the burden of the Great Scism. The rise of the House of Skywalker ruined many other families. This is the story of one of them.
1. Escape From the Death Star

24

Like a gem in the void. Drifting across space in a disregarded sector of the galaxy was a contrast unlike any other in creation. The immense blue gas giant of Endor was perhaps the single richest planet in sheer beauty. She herself was a lovely sapphire blue with green and violet clouds storming across her atmosphere and thin lazy wisps of white ice thrown up by the turmoil below floating on the denser gasses in bands between the green and the violet storms. She possessed no rings but did have a dozen or so closely spaced and richly endowed moons. One was covered in great hectic sheets of ice that, due to the circumstances of the moon's gravity and differences in temperature, moved at the incredible pace of sixty kilometers per day. The effect was to make it appear as a self-sustaining snowball, perfectly round and brilliantly white. Another was a desert of the finest red ruby crystals ground to the most uncompromising sand. Still another was endowed with a perfectly blue ocean of liquid nitrogen fifteen kilometers thick without a single outcropping of rock.

All her moons were thus endowed with the exception of what had to be a stray asteroid caught in her gravity. Still, this barren rock could not have been better placed. It had an impressive gravity well that attracted meteors, comets, and asteroids unto itself; consequently, it acted as a shield to its more delicate sisters to some spectacular effect. Even now, a comet smashed into its surface, sending up flames and ice like a corona about itself while the forest moon behind it remained safe enough that those beings on it and those working above it could stop briefly and marvel at its fierce beauty.

Above the forest moon a great, menacing crescent of lifeless gray durasteel hung in a moment of rare fragility. Attracted by Endor's seclusion and her abundant energy, the Empire had started construction of a new _Death Star_ to take advantage of first the energy radiating from the Endor itself, but also the intense solar radiation from her blue giant sun. The forest moon made a perfect base for the deflector shield being both hospitable and easy to hide in. And so protected, provided for by the moon's bounty, and unthreatened by anything the system had to offer the 160-kilometer diameter planetoid began to form.

Endor herself barely noticed this unsightly blemish to her exquisite facets.

Work was frantic, even for Imperial standards. The Commander, Moff Jerjerrod, often was found working alongside slaves and engineers desperately trying to meet the Emperor's timetable. All were pushed to the brink, but few were executed; Jerjerrod had need of every man he had, such waste was impossible. Despite all that work was going quite well. The first _Death Star_ had been both smaller and cruder; and yet construction was proceeding smoother and cleaner. The first _Death Star_ had so completely fouled Depayer's orbit, where it had been constructed, that landing upon its surface had been rendered impossible trapping the builders there for eternity. No such consequences were even hinted at so far at Endor. The first _Death Star_ had taken years to design and more to build. This one Bevel Lemelisk had redesigned in days and was taking about two years to construct with only a fraction of the manpower. It was going well, but not well enough. The timetable required the superlaser operational within weeks. It would take roughly triple the time required to do that.

The Moff now stood in hangar dock one. It was a small hangar by the standards of the _Death Star_, but it was empty, ornate, and, most importantly, finished. Only about a fifth of the utility ring was operational and those sections were in patchy, disconnected clumps scattered about the equator. When approaching this hangar one could not help but notice the holes and scaffolding that dotted the surface. Directly beside this dock was the much larger hangar reserved for _Imperial_ class Star Destroyers. So far behind it was that men still worked in space suits despite its well-lit, cavernous appearance.

But however tight the schedule, no matter how grave the consequences, no Imperial officer in his right mind would greet Darth Vader without some ceremony. Pulling much-needed officers and troops from hard pressed work; Jerjerrod had filled the hangar with Stormtroopers, technicians, and engineers making a small but impressive parade ground. He was actually glad the hangar beside was unsuitable for this task; filling it up with people would have brought work to a standstill. While the _Lambada_-class shuttle approached and all snapped to attention, he hoped fiercely that the Dark Lord of the Sith would overlook the gaping holes and the dangling wires.

The shuttle landed in its graceful way, and the boarding ramp had barely lowered fully to the floor when Darth Vader fairly stormed out of the ship. His black robes flared to reveal his protective armor. His menacing helmet voiced his even breathing. And every bit of him conveyed a sense of agitation and annoyance that was so typical of his reputation. The flowery greeting the Moff started to recite was cut short without so much as a skip in Vader's stride.

Jerjerrod made his apologies both for himself and his men and tried to reassure Vader enough so that this grim lord might become more amenable company and let him get back to work. Vader would have none of it, "The Emperor does not share your optimistic appraisal of the situation," he growled darkly. The Commander faintly wondered if the man ever spoke in any other fashion; certainly his reputation would not sustain that he did.

Faced with this unnerving representative of the Emperor himself and what had to be the hard facts of his opinions, Jerjerrod decided the truth was his only defense. "But he asked the impossible," he had wanted to appear more stoic in front of his men but his voice came out sounding plaintive and desperate, "I need more men."

What Vader said next chilled the Commander's blood (and he would have wagered all those aboard the station). "Then perhaps you can tell him when he arrives." The dark helmet leaned forward almost conspiratorially.

"The Emperor's coming here?" he heard himself babble quite unable to stop himself. If the Emperor were in the slightest bit displeased his life would be forfeit. The one hundred story tower on the north pole of the _Death Star_ that housed the Emperor's throne room and chambers had yet to be even started. That and hundreds of other details flashed through his mind as Vader voiced the displeasure of his master. His mind was so focused that every syllable drilled into his being; chiseling out an epitaph.

"That is correct, Commander. And he is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress."

In a near state of panic he offered, "We shall double our efforts!"

Vader appeared unimpressed. "I hope so, Commander, for your sake. The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am." He pronounced this last carefully, sarcastically. Not one sentient being had to be reminded of the Emperor's wrath. His temper was both violent and short with a twisted sense of humor to boot. No one in control of their senses would cross him intentionally lest they become fodder for his amusement.

Vader turned from the now breathless Moff and stormed off to meditate in his chambers. He would rarely emerge until Palpatine's arrival a few days later. But when he did invariable someone fell to the floor clutching his or her throats and struggling for air.

_I need more men_, Jerjerrod thought frantically. He dispersed the small company to their duties, and made his way to the control room where his gaze fell upon the three Star Destroyers that had brought Darth Vader here. They would soon find themselves with empty brigs and deserted engineering sections. Every last droid would soon be working around the clock alongside already exhausted slaves, techs, officers, and prisoners alike. There was simply no other way. "Call the _Devastator_, the _Drumhead_, and the _Accuser_," he ordered. "We need every man they can spare."

The fall of the Empire was now only a possibility not a definite idea. Therefore, it carried on as though its victory over rebels and insurgents was inevitable. Its civilians worked a normal day, its military smugly dispatched its duties, and its policies came, as though from an omniscient god, solely from the Emperor. The Star Destroyer _Drumhead_ was no different with perhaps the exception of its assignment. Guarding the new _Death Star_ was hardly ordinary.

It mattered little to the Lieutenant this morning. His job today was something more befitted to a boson or an Imperial Stormtrooper. A fresh graduate from the Academy, his superiors found it suitable for him to do the most mundane of tasks. Take this for example, prisoner transfer from the ship's brig to an unfinished section of the Death Star. Apparently they needed to give this guy the royal treatment, the Lieutenant fumed. He strode up to a door reinforced with hull armor plate, making it strong enough to take the full force of a turbolaser blast. "Lasck!" he barked in the intercom. "Get up, you're needed!"

The door slid open to his command, and a robust man stood at a workbench in manacles. A full head taller than the Lieutenant, he had to stoop inside his cell to stand at all. At the ends of his long arms were a pair of oversized hands that barely fit through the manacles he had donned to greet the Imperial. With his short, graying hair and his sharp green eyes, his otherwise chiseled features managed a very severe, if unkempt, look. Without a word his expression alone told the Lieutenant that he would broker nothing but the hardest of facts. He stood quietly beside the shell of a hyperdrive casing. The Lieutenant marveled briefly that a prisoner would be allowed access to such a thing and, more importantly, the tools to handle one. Those kinds of tools were given only to the most skilled of technicians and could easily free any prisoner despite the rugged walls. Otherwise the decor was sparse and functional. The prisoner looked appraisingly at him.

It was time to get to business. "Let's go," the Lieutenant said, and prisoner Daub Lasck fell into step. They arrived at the hanger only to find all _Lambada_ class shuttles were otherwise disposed. The Lieutenant was hardly fazed. "Over there!" he ordered. He led them towards the TIE bombers.

Commandeering a pilot, he then stuffed the prisoner into the bomb bay and took the bombardier's station in the cockpit. The TIE left the Drumhead and headed towards the continental arrowhead that was the _Executor_ Super Star Destroyer.

"TIE bomber state your mission," the COM squawked. The necessary protocol to pass the deflector shield began as always, crisp, clear, and slightly hostile. The pilot spoke briefly with the control on the _Executor_.

"Sorry, sir, there appears to be a line," the pilot said.

"Great," the Lieutenant grumbled. "I'm needed back on the bridge."

The pilot rolled his eyes beneath his helmet. Bridge officers were not made to perform the duties of an errand boy.

The Lieutenant seemed to sense the unspoken derision. "I have a section to lead," he said defensively. When the pilot didn't respond he added, "The weapons array is my responsibility back aboard. If they don't need direction they need my help, so I'd just assume that we make this quick."

The pilot stifled a groan as he listened to this fantastic speech.

It was mercifully cut short when the COM squawked to life, "TIE bomber, follow shuttle _Quadrona_ through the deflector shield in formation with you're designated escort." The pilot turned sharply towards the shuttle passing by the COM tower of the _Executor_. Passage was accomplished with the escort of no fewer than three TIE fighters.

They landed in the utility ring about the equator of what was to become the single largest synthetic moving object ever made. They were received in a frantically rushed manner. Everyone aboard seemed more focused, more intense, than seemed possible, but there was still too much to do to skip a single detail. The pilot signed the logs while the Lieutenant retrieved the prisoner. Lasck emerged, cold, covered in frost in fact, but also resolute. No shivers rattled his body, no gagging for air, not even apparent relief from what had to be a suffocating, claustrophobic ride.

A Stormtrooper appeared before Lasck had even the chance to thaw his mantle of frost. "He an alien?" the trooper asked. He indicated Lasck's blue skin and white lips. "I was told to escort a human," he checked a datapad, "Daub Lasck?"

The Lieutenant snorted derisively. "He's warming up and lacks the sense to shiver." He indicated the open bomb bay hatch.

"And he survived?" the trooper asked. "I wasn't aware that was even possible."

"Captain Lasck holds little regard for the traitors among his siblings," replied the Lieutenant. This was more than an idle boast; Captain Rook Lasck was in fact the commander of the _Drumhead_ itself. Daub Lasck was his younger, seditious brother. When Rook discovered his brother's treason, he had demanded Daub's execution, but the Emperor himself had granted only imprisonment under Rook's spiteful eye. It was widely regarded amongst his peers that Captain Lasck's career had been ruined by the scandal, and the Emperor sought to make an example of them both. The truth could only be speculated on past that.

The Lieutenant knew only that much, few knew more. As for what Daub Lasck had done or what motivated him to treason, he neither knew nor did he care. The only thing he really wanted to know was why Daub required a nursemaid outside of his cell. Another curiosity was what made Daub important enough to merit the workshop in his cell or, for that matter, the necessity to move him at all.

The Trooper immediately began to fill in a few of those gaps. "I need him for hyperdrive work and you bring him here half frozen!" he snapped. "I don't have time to thaw him."

"Then don't," the Lieutenant replied. "Let's just get moving, and he'll get warm enough."

The Trooper regarded the Lieutenant malevolently through the impassive face of his helmet. But he resigned himself to the reality that the Lieutenant was entirely right. "We'll march then," he ordered. He indicated the main hall entrance.

The main hall was as an impressive sight as any in the Empire. Sectioned off, it nevertheless completely encircled the utility ring. Under normal operation, blast doors sealed off every fifth section in case of an unexpected emergency. During an actual emergency every section was sealed off at hundred meter intervals; however the entire ring was wide open to provide for the construction. The first step into the great hall made one first impressed by the size of it then terribly dizzy as the eye tried in vain to seek out the end of it. Each doorframe ran in concentric rings into infinity until the imperceptible curve of the Death Star caused a doorway to slide around an imaginary corner. One could walk the entire circumference in this manner. In fact, many Stormtroopers had actually run it. All troopers aboard had already marched it at least once. So it was to the Lieutenant's dismay that the Stormtrooper turned directly down this endless cavern. To the sides were construction equipment and Imperial Army hardware. AT-ATs could be seen kneeling in their storage containers. They merely awaited the order to invade to fill up with troops and disembark. Some were outfitted with heavy lift equipment to help with construction. But otherwise each was identically placed and postured; rendering all hopes of some telltale landmarks futile. Their regimental order only made that fact more ominous.

Through this durasteel realm they marched until the Lieutenant lost count of the corridors they had passed and doors he had walked through. "How much further is it?" the Lieutenant asked.

The trooper simply could not help himself when his face split into a grin, "Don't worry, Lieutenant, only forty more blast doors to go."

The Lieutenant just about crumpled in a heap on the spot. To his credit, he merely allowed a disheartened moan to escape his lips. Then, just as his shoulders sagged and his posture slumped, the trooper made an abrupt turn. They finally arrived.

The Stormtrooper marched onward to the workmen while the Lieutenant found a place to sit and collect himself.

Daub Lasck, for his part, appeared unphased. Thawed at least, but he appeared as dispassionate as before.

Immediately a man in a simple coverall bearing the rank insignia of an Imperial engineer confronted them. "Lieutenant," he began excitedly, "This is him isn't it?" Without waiting for an answer he babbled on. "I can verify that a field will be generated, but I can't tell if navigation is getting a proper feed. Do you think that you can tell me if alignment is nominal?" The Engineer looked at his datapad and ticked off some detail. He erupted again in another furious babble of technical jargon. "We have structural faults and power flux all across the board. Mounts are cracking almost immediately after we remove the shims. And we are barely able to keep up with them before the whole structure shatters. Aught-six of the exhaust shows up radii and another aught-nine is blowing directly into the chamber..." This giddy burst of speech was all directed and Lasck.

Lasck did not even appear to gather his concentration even while the almost panicked engineer prattled on.

The Lieutenant saw fit to interrupt this senseless babble. "Now wait one moment!" he snapped. "Just who do you think this is?"

The Engineer only paused briefly and then refocused his attention on Lasck. The Stormtrooper turned to the Lieutenant, "The former Fleet Chief Daub Lasck of his Majesty's Imperial fleet." The Trooper looked again towards the still silent man. "He's one of the most skilled men alive."

"I can tell you that we do not have enough manpower to rephase it yet, but we do have enough to affect a shift." The Engineer stopped his speech. Looking intently at Lasck he now expected an answer to all his problems.

"It's installed backwards." The voice boomed across the chamber with a clamorous effect. Lasck's words, both simple and quietly spoken, had a visible impact on all in the chamber. Work, for a brief time, ceased. The words could be heard in echo so sudden was the silence. Lasck's voice was deep and even. He spoke with utter conviction. No one doubted the authority of it, including the arrogant Lieutenant who had escorted him here.

For a brief moment, silence thundered throughout the chamber. Then the Engineer shattered its pristine existence. "Aww damn!" he barked. He whirled on the crew behind him, "Didn't I tell you?"

A thousand voices boomed back, "NO!"

The Engineer feigned humility and roared, "It's not my fault!"

The voices began to laugh.

Clearly this was a team unlike the typical model. Imperial doctrine held that discipline be maintained at all levels of a project. Any deviation from doctrine was dealt with severely. It was one of the mandatory functions of every last Stormtrooper, officer, and subject of the Empire. Freedom bred contempt for the Emperor; consequently he would loathe abiding it.

So it was no large surprise when the Troopers in the room charged and leveled their weapons in practiced unison. It was a different story when nothing happened. The laughter continued unabated even while blasters tracked from target to target.

The Lieutenant was shocked at this display, "Why don't they fire?" he demanded.

"It is strange isn't it?" the Stormtrooper mused. "Even without the Emperor's will to guide them, this is the best crew in the fleet." He seemed astonished that anything of the kind was feasible. "They're just slaves, prisoners, and a speckling of engineers, but they still produce unlike any other team in the galaxy."

The Lieutenant would not hear of it. "Silence! Everyone back to work!" he bellowed. The laughter faltered only slightly. He drew his blaster pistol and leveled it at the Engineer. His thumb pressed the contact only in time to have his aim wrenched to the floor. He looked at his hand to discover that the blaster was gone.

A manacled hand was offering it to the Stormtrooper. Lasck had snatched it from his hand with the kind of speed his previous motions had not even hinted he was capable of. The Trooper took the blaster, and Lasck returned to his previous stance. "We'll need him," he said with the same flat authority.

"I certainly can live without him," the Lieutenant barked now enraged.

"I'll need him, Lieutenant," Lasck reasserted. "No one else has a line on what's wrong here." He paused a moment then added with a wry smile, "Would I lead you wrong?"

The Lieutenant regarded Lasck angrily for a moment then he realized that Lasck had more to loose than himself. "Fine," he said as though he were in charge. "It will be you're head not mine in the end." He would never know how wrong he was.

The engineer, still feverishly intent on his project, turned back to Lasck, "So?"

Daub faced the man and began an equally giddy burst of jargon that the Lieutenant only managed to follow in snippets. "First gather your tie-ins and take them to the ceiling. We need them out of the way so keep the slack all in the positive, vertical degrees of freedom. Get those heavy lifters in here and get them ready at the mounts to snare the pinions as we bring them about. Isolate the power grid and prepare for a system restart at the failsafe, and primary levels." He turned to the Stormtrooper hat had brought him here, "Will your men do a bit of heavy weapons tests in here if I point out the targets?"

The Stormtrooper was justifiably surprised, "What do you have in mind?"

"The shackles at the twelve shock points. Plus I need two anti-armor mortars off a scout walker to blow out the floor."

The trooper looked anxiously at the massive hyperdrive motivator that filled the room. Seventeen decks high and just as far across, if it were damaged there would be no replacing it easily. "Will it work?"

Daub frowned impatiently. "We will have to blow the floor out after you shoot out the pinions to allow that motivator room to rotate and to draw it into a proper spin so we don't have to blow the ceiling or walls. The second mortar will cause a pressure wave that will roll it back into alignment. The heavy lifters will catch the shackles wile we still have the systems off in the room so as not to affect a power surge and to do this in complete weightlessness. Those systems will automatically restart after they complete a diagnostic. That gives us twelve seconds to do it all. I've done this on every shakedown cruise of every Star Destroyer I've ever received from KDY. You won't feel a thing."

Work continued unabated. No distraction or setback could stop its intensity. Lasck did, in fact fix, the hyperdrive motivator in a minimum of time. After that he was tasked to fabricate, grind, and align the ten crucial crystals that made up the heart of the superlaser.

It was no small coincidence he was needed to do these things, or that he could do them at all. After months of frustration in orbit around Despayer, Grand Moff Tarkin had been forced to obtain his expertise to accomplish these very things aboard the first _Death Star_. That and a score of other details had needed his personal attention the first time around. Now, the numbers of problems were smaller, but the big ones could not be done without him. Bevel Lemelisk may have designed the _Death Star_, but Daub Lasck had made it work. It was a fact that Daub was no longer proud to admit. In a week he had taken the project from a standstill heap to a fully functioning planetoid. Now his magic was at work again.

He wondered if he should just let them kill him rather than fix this ugly heap, but he reasoned that it would only delay them not stop them. The first time around he had shown a number of people how it was done, and they would have few reservations for this job. It would take ten of those specialists to do what he could do by himself, but they would do it. Beside that it was a challenge then, and it was an only slightly diminished one now. He could barely resist throwing himself into it.

To satisfy his conscience Daub did sabotage the system slightly. The superlaser had enough power to destroy about any target (short of a star) it was trained on. But Imperial engineers insisted that it could only be fired once a day for planetary targets and once a minute for cruisers. Each target had to be individually selected and destroyed no matter what its size. Daub knew that with a simple light splitter and floating crystal facets that as many as six thousand targets at a shot could be destroyed, all that, without so much as a wasted wavelength of light. However he never told anyone this could be done.

With the first _Death Star_ he had yet to believe that the main reactor would be rugged enough to withstand firing a single shot. Telling Grand Moff Tarkin as much, he had been casually dismissed. Then when Alderaan was destroyed, Daub came to realize how fatally wrong he was.

On a deeper level he had discovered the state he had allowed himself to slide into. Because of his actions, murder, on an unprecedented scale, was made possible. A newly formed contempt for the Empire reared its outraged head, and a more naive, more content Daub Lasck, died with the victims of Alderaan.

Daub had celebrated Alderaan's fate by joining the Rebel Alliance.

Too late to be a part of the Battle of Yavin he had been sent to a remote, freezing world to construct a base there. Echo base on Hoth he found a fitting place for himself. A return to basic survival, and a way to freeze out the contempt he held himself in. Out of a cold and merciless climate he forged an oasis to sustain life. Soon wild taun-tauns came to shelter in his caves. In turn he fed and domesticated them. When the immense Kuat Drive Yards 150 ion cannon arrived, he was called in to assemble and set it. In addition he put up a planetary defense shield, despite the Rebels from General Rieekan on down telling him that with the "150" that it was a waste of time and power.

When the _Executor_ and half the fleet arrived over Hoth, his assertions had been vindicated. The shield had given them time to evacuate while AT-ATs fought their way to the power generator. But in the mad rush to get off world, he was left behind and captured.

His brother Rook could only marvel at what he considered a mental breakdown in his younger brother. More as a merciful gesture than as any selfish plot, Rook had asked for Daub to be, "relieved of his affliction" the euphemism for execution. But the Emperor was already constructing his next _Death Star_; rendering Daub's rather generous talents too valuable to waste. Rook was told to imprison Daub aboard his own ship the _Drumhead_ until his talents were called on.

Work continued for a week unabated until the Emperor arrived. A brief pause was observed in his honor, but work continued only a few moments later. The work team was broken up, and was assigned an area instead of a solitary task to complete. The fifty or so workers of Lasck's gang found themselves in hangar 270. Directly above them was the immense superlaser dish.

Legend had it that on the day of Alderaan's demise this particular hangar was filled with spectators eagerly awaiting a show aboard this station's counterpart. They were duly impressed by what they witnessed that day. A cheer had risen amongst the Imperials, celebrating the station coming fully on line. The cheer roared for a few moments until the explosive pressure wave hit the outer magnetic field. The _Death Star_ was equipped with a shielding system to protect it from flying debris and radiation: it failed. The magnetic field did push aside larger fragments, but a fine storm of sand and dust fairly blasted the entire station. Shielding did diminish the pressure wave; regardless, a warm, parched wind howled through hangar 270 with an eerie moan. This last "shriek" of Alderaan silenced the celebrating Imperials in the hangar. It was said that the first words spoken in the silence foretold of the price to be paid for this crime. The next day all those in the hangar were dead.

Years later, and with an entirely different perspective, Daub could reflect fitfully on the course of events that had led him back to an identically cursed hangar. From here the view into space was truly magnificent. Had he been afforded the privilege, he would have strolled to the edge of the protective field, and taken in the wonders presented here to their full effect. But the view did allow one to witness what had to be some kind of mistake. The fleet had, the day before, moved to the far side of the Sanctuary moon. Whatever protection the _Death Star_ gained by its presence, was diminished by distance. Something was going on.

The crew noted this as they notched up another grueling day of work. This hangar was to be made ready to accept TIE fighters at the earliest moment possible. TIE fighter racks are easy to hang, but the systems around them must be intricately balanced. When a TIE is launched, it is dropped from the rack. It has to release cleanly from both its umbilical power source and the grapples to function properly. If the umbilical snags a stray fitting and is released before the grapples are fully opened then several seconds must be used to accommodate the computers skipping a beat. Then a repulsor field grabs it where it starts its engines and powers up. When full power is achieved the repulsor field is rotated and reversed, catapulting the TIE into space. An improper field can tear apart a fighter or force it into the bulkheads. In addition, the racks can drop the wrong fighter or more than one at a time. The field must be prepared to take on such accidents without damaging the fighters or the hangar.

Recovering a TIE was handled by an entirely separate system. A TIE would fly an approach pattern where a tractor beam would catch it and draw it into the hangar. Another tractor beam would grab it and hang it on the rack. Imperial pilots are never trained to land. Also, if a TIE drops into the repulsor field and a mechanical problem is discovered, the repulsor field must throw the craft back up to the racks.

Trying to get these two systems to operate simultaneously took a careful set up. If the tractor beams interfered with the repulsor fields, deadly wavelengths of energy would scatter about the room. The solution was a mechanical failsafe that allowed these separate systems to operate in different strata of the hangar. Tractor beams could only work in the upper third of the hangar, while the lower third was to be handled by the repulsor fields. This arrangement actually worked pretty well, but it was a plasteel ranchor to set up.

Daub was now testing it with a squadron of TIE bombers. This type, being the heaviest, meant that the racks would sustain any load put on it. "Okay, drop it," he said into a comlink. The landing claws opened, and the bulky TIE bomber under him fell away. For a few meters it continued down until the repulsor field caught it. It bobbed there gently for a moment then gave a violent buck. It passed through the ten meters of dead space, and into the tractor beam's area of influence, but it did not slow down.

The comlink squawked to life, "The tractor beams won't lock on! Get out of there!"

Daub did not move. Part of the reason was contempt, but the larger reason was he could not hope to outrun the speeding bomber. The TIE slammed into the rack with a thunderous clatter. Daub was thrown bodily upwards but he kept his grip on an old fashioned lever that manually controlled the grapples. Then as the fighter began to fall again he wrenched a lever with his weight to close the docking grapples again. His feet slammed back to the rack's catwalk. There was a sound of scraping metal, and then the rack gave a slight heave of tortured durasteel. Then quiet settled again.

One of the Wookee slaves roared at Daub.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replied. "We simply have to get that tractor beam fixed."

They tried it again. Only this time three TIEs fell at once. A fourth was hung up on one of the clamps. The repulsor fields caught all three with ease. The fourth would rip itself free if the tractor beams did not work. "That's it," Daub said decisively, "until we have the fields aligned, we release all fighters manually."

The officer in the control booth was shocked by Daub's command. "You mean someone actually has to stand above the craft as it drops through a tractor field?" That kind of laborious action offended his automated way of life.

"We've been doing it for an hour, sir," Daub spoke as though to a petulant child, "we can certainly continue until the tractors are on line." Apparently Imperial doctrine was filtering down out of the palace itself now. In the last week, Daub had fixed problems that were directly tied to a universal distain for hard work. Even in the Rebel alliance, this magnitude of laziness was something quite rare. When he had first became an Imperial Chief, hard work had come with the territory. But now it appeared that the Imperial view was not far removed from Palpatine himself. Every wish had to be done without any grime whatsoever offending the responsible party's hands. He now considered himself fortunate not to be included amongst these spoiled brats, and continued to work.

When the Rebels arrived, Daub was afforded a perfect view out the hangar. He recognized all the ship types, but was surprised to see that the Alliance actually had them. The Mon Calamari cruisers were added to the Rebel inventory after his capture. _If those are piloted by actual Mon Calamari crews,_ he thought, _those should be some tricky ships to pin down._ His speculation was quickly confirmed. Just as the ships approached the _Death Star_, they sharply veered away from it; making the huge ships appear as nimble as their fighter escorts. Daub briefly wondered why they would dart away like that until he saw the shimmer of the _Death Star's_ deflector shield in the cruisers engine plumes. Beyond that he saw the massed fleet of Star Destroyers that had moved to the far side of Endor the day before.

The Imperials aboard the _Death Star_, meanwhile, scurried about with singular focus. Fighters launched from other hangers, but this one held TIE bombers and incomplete racks to hold them; therefore, they would be launched a bit later. One pilot and his bombardier ran into the hangar and stared at the TIEs in the racks. "Can we launch?" he bellowed at Daub.

The controller in the command deck answered instead. "Not without manual index and release."

The pilot did not even appear to digest the information before he ran up the catwalks to the top register of the racks. More pilots and their bombardiers followed. "You!" he shouted at Daub, "Pull the release when we get inside." Daub moved to the lever as he was bidden while the pilot dropped into the top hatch of the TIE beneath him. The bombardier had scarcely leapt from the catwalk when Daub pulled the lever and the TIE bomber fell away twenty meters to the repulsor field below. The bombardier fell the entire distance just above the hull of the TIE and slipped neatly through the hatch to a muffled thud in the cockpit below.

Daub looked down through the hatch to see the bombardier's legs and an arm were skewed of at impossible angles. The hapless Imperial's helmet had fallen off his head, so that Daub could see the dazed expression on his face. Daub gave him a sweet smile and a thumbs up to send him into battle. Just then the hatch closed and the TIE bomber raced into space without the pilot ever looking back to see what had happened.

The other crews were too focused on their tasks to see what Daub had done. But there was someone who had witnessed this little crime. A Wookee named Kabayoth woofed out great gusts of laughter as a crew dropped into a TIE near him. Through his laughter he slammed the hatch shut over the crew. Then, with one strong heave, he pulled the power umbilicus from the TIE. Then he pushed the release lever and the TIE fell to the repulsor field below.

The pilot was surprised to find all his systems in standby mode. He tried to turn them on, but a systems restart commenced instead of powering up. Knowing that would take several seconds he tried to signal the control booth to halt the launch. The man in the booth was about to comply when he saw the racks index over with the next bomber. The bomber in the racks immediately began to fall as soon as it reached the launch position. Being good at his job, he knew he had no choice but to launch the one below before the other one dropped on it. Since the inertial dampeners were in restart, the crew of the first one was hurled out of their seats as they were flung out of the hangar. The second TIE clipped the trailing edge of the first one's solar panels; adding a tumbling motion to the launch. The controller was unable to shut off the launch sequence in time to prevent the second TIE from being hurled into space right after the first. But because it had clipped the first one, the tail of the TIE hit the repulsor field first, pitching it end over end as it raced out the hangar.

The first TIE did not even get full power back before it smashed into the backside of the same deflector shield all the Rebel ships had managed to miss. The second one never regained enough control of his tumbling craft before he did the same.

The controller was trying to get a handle on what had to be the worst hangar accident in Imperial history, when he noticed the black uniformed crews of the bombers dropping like some nightmare rain from the racks above. He soon realized that he had still not turned off the launch cycle when the crew's bodies hit the repulsor field and immediately bolted off into space. "The slaves!" he shouted. "The slaves are throwing the crews off the racks!" He was about to shut down the launch cycle when a Wookee burst into the room, wrenched him from his seat, threw him through the clearplaz view port into the repulsor field, and from there, the repulsor field wrenched him out into space.

The Wookee roared to his mates to hurry and take whatever craft they could find. Then he left the control room to join them.

Above in the racks, the last of the Imperial crews had been disposed of. And the newly freed slaves rushed onto the TIE bombers. Few stopped to gaze at the fine fight that was raging outside. Hatches snapped shut, and erratic launches began. Two were safely out of the hangar when Kabayoth ran up to Daub as he pulled the release for a third. We should go now, my friend, he growled.

"Not until more are safely away," Daub replied. He launched two more when he saw the next one was empty and no one was on the rack to man it.

Kabayoth motioned below and behind him. Further back in the hangar, a shuttle was filling up with the newly freed slaves. The shuttle powered up just as the last Wookiee ran up the closing entry ramp. The shuttle smoothly rose above the repulsor field that would have sent it spinning out of control, and pirouetted to face the space beyond. Then the large wings dropped and the engines roared smoothly to life. That's all of them, Kabayoth said. We need to get out of here.

Daub dropped into the cockpit of the TIE bomber and powered up the controls. It was here that he realized that Kabayoth would either have to stay and pull the release handle, or he would have to do that himself. Then he had an idea. He made a quick inventory of the TIE's ordinance: twelve space bombs. "Get in!" he shouted at the Wookee.

Kabayoth did as he was told, and Daub shut the hatch above them. "Get in the bombardier's seat, and target ninety degrees left and right." Kabayoth dropped into a seat that was several sizes too small and began to feverishly work the controls. Meanwhile Daub ran his engines to full power and isolated the craft's computer power from the outside umbilical trying to break the two grapples holding the TIE to the rack. He really didn't expect them to give one bit (he, after all, had built them,) but it was worth trying before he took it to the next step. When the grapples still did not break he told Kabayoth, "Fire left and right!"

Kabayoth was confused, Fire? he growled dazedly.

Just then an immense, green turbolaser bolt backlit the cockpit followed by the explosion of one of the Mon Calamari cruisers. Both sat in stunned silence for a long moment while the TIE's engines screamed at full power. The _Death Star_ was fully operational.

Kabayoth broke his astonishment first and immediately fired two space bombs. They fell out of the ordinance pod and streaked towards the walls on either side of them. Space bombs were some of the most devastating ordinance a starfighter could ever hope to carry. Designed during the Clone Wars, the small, arrowhead shaped warheads, were slow by the present standards; therefore, they were easily shot down. But they contained enough explosive energy to cripple any capitol ship with a single hit. Not even concussion missiles could claim such effective destructive force. Detonating two of these dangerous relics less than two hundred meters on either side of a flimsy TIE bomber was simply too dangerous to consider ordinarily. The walls supporting the TIE racks blew outwards into the hangars to either side of the one Daub and Kabayoth were in. Before they were done the space bombs would sever critical power links in the _Death Star's_ utility ring, rendering the _Death Star_ immobile. The racks fell away from the smashed walls, trapped TIE bomber and all, and Daub's TIE began to drag the racks towards the hangar opening. Daub tried to keep the TIE in a full climb to compensate for the added weight of the racks, but they edged closer and closer to the repulsor field that Daub knew would tare the TIE apart. He judged that he could drag the racks in flight if he had to, but the bomber had to be in tact to do that. The explosions from the space bombs were getting closer to the bomber as well, and the shock waves would easily smash them as well.

They raced for the opening until the racks caught on either side, the fighter slid downwards. Daub felt his hopes drop with the descending racks, and for a moment he was sure this was the end of it all. Then the long dreaded repulsor field caught them. The bomber shot forward, snapping the grapples cleanly off the racks. And, just like that, they were free.

Daub was at first so surprised he only remotely registered controlled flight. Escape, so long cherished and yet so fleeting an opportunity, bordered on an incredible (if not an impossible) reality. But resolve soon brought his stunned senses into line. He tried to locate the other escapees, but discovered the explosion had damaged his targeting sensors. He heard small impacts on the hull and turned to see in his rear view screen, to his amazement, that the hangar opening was now hurling the racks out of the _Death Star_ after them. He pitched up and watched as the junk bounced off the deflector shield to his frenzied amusement. "Do me a favor, Kabayoth."

Kabayoth roared an accommodating question.

"Never let me do that again," Daub sighed. He glanced at his hands to discover that they were violently trembling. He held one up to his eyes and willed it to the stillness of a calm mind.

I could never be so lucky again, Kabayoth roared. Thank you, my friend.

"We're not home yet, Kabayoth. Keep an eye open for trouble," Daub replied. As if to prove his point, the _Death Star_ fired again. Another one of the Calamari ships detonated in reply. "Blast, they're being slaughtered," he sighed.

We have the COM system up and running, Kabayoth offered. He switched it on to the open frequencies to demonstrate.

There was immediately a babble of excited voices, which Kabayoth narrowed down to a few to listen to. "Shuttle _Tongstex,_ identify cargo and destination," an Imperial controller ordered. In some remote corner of his mind, Daub found the Imperial's relentless enforcement of order somewhat hysterical. He gave a derisive snort without knowing it. Even amidst what had to be the largest engagement of ships since the Crescent Core War, this lone controller found it necessary to maniacally fill his logbook. People can be so blind some times.

There they are, Kabayoth roared pointing off to Daub's left. It was the shuttle full of Wookiees that had left the hangar before they did. There was maybe a Rodian or even a Twe'lek aboard, but neither Kabayoth nor Daub had any illusions that there was any aboard that could pass for an Imperial. Even as he watched, five TIE bombers hovered around the shuttle in a protective circle. Daub guessed there was not any aboard those that could bluff their way out of this one either.

"Control, this is Gamma lead," Daub said over the Imperial channel. "We are escorting shuttle _Tongstex _to the moon's surface for reinforcements to the legion there." Perhaps the Imperial monster could be lulled back to contented ignorance of their situation.

The controller sounded thunderstruck, "In case you haven't realized, we have a full blown engagement right in front of us. No shield passage will be allowed until the Rebels are wiped out."

It amazed Daub that the officer could grasp the situation so fluidly. Certainly he was aware of the explosion he had left in his wake. "I have my orders, control," Daub said as sternly as he could. In all his years as an Imperial Chief, he had learned that _orders_ could be questioned at the very most, but never ignored. Then the chain of command began to line up into a workable lie, "Signed by, Grand Admiral Yeats, himself."

"I have my orders directly from the Emperor," the controller replied. From the sound of his voice, he spoke through clenched teeth. "You will not be allowed to pass through the shield until the threat is eliminated." There was a pause then the controller spoke again. "Grand Admiral Yeats will be arrested shortly, and you are ordered to heave to for an inspection."

Daub was frantically trying to think a way out of this when the Rebel fleet sharply veered back towards the _Death Star_. The COM system squawked back to life, "All ships! The deflector shield is down! Destroy all rebel ships, and prevent any starfighters from entering the superstructure of the _Death Star_!" It sounded like the same controller, but the man sounded near panic now.

The shuttle plunged at once for the relative safety of the sanctuary moon. Her escorts of TIE bombers followed in a protective ring. Kabayoth breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, May you find the way to the rustling limbs of Kashyyyk. He bade them a fond farewell after so many years together, then he turned to his own pilot, What now?

Daub Lasck raked his TIE bomber towards the battle raging above Endor.

"Captain Lasck," the bridge officer called out.

Captain Rook Lasck walked over to the man below in the control center. Calmly, he lowered his attention to the officer. The battle was going well for him. He had his sector secured, his fighter elements were still at combat strength, and he had heavily damaged a Rebel Corvette. He was looking forward to the news that the Corvette was destroyed or that the Rebels were surrendering. Instead he saw the man below wearing an astonished gape. "Yes, Lieutenant?" Rook spoke without the unease he felt looking at the man.

"Sir, the deflector shield is down!" The Lieutenant sounded close to despair.

Rook at once galvanized himself into action. "COM officer, call the fighter forces to break off whatever they are doing to set up a fighter screen about the _Death Star_."

The reply was a bit longer than usual in coming, but the wavering voice of the young man came back, "Yes, sir."

Rook found himself enraged at the younger man's unprofessional reply. He marched to the man's station. Growling through clenched teeth, "I expect you to hurry up, Ensign," he made sure he focused his full rage at the man. An energy not unlike a ferocious heat radiated from him in terrifying waves.

Fear bloomed in the Ensign's eyes even as he performed his orders. "Sir, the fighters are breaking off to protect the _Death Star_."

Still glaring down at the younger man, Rook continued, "Raise Admiral Piet. Tell him that we stand to move into position to repel the Rebels if they approach the _Death Star._"

Once again, the reply was slow in coming, "Sir, the Admiral reports that he has too much to deal with right now."

Rook widened his eyes in astonishment. What was happening? "Helmsman!" Rook shouted and wheeled to face the man. "Bring us closer to the _Death Star_, set up a perimeter orbit." He turned back to the hapless COM Officer, "Alert all commands. See if any will lend any support." He turned again, "Tactical! I want that Corvette destroyed NOW!"

The COM Officer piped up, "Sir, Captain Palleaon of the _Chimaera _says he will lend his support."

"Only one ship?" Rook asked dazedly. Ordinarily, he could have counted on at least ten other commands responding to the call especially in a fleet action. He did not wait for a reply, "Helm, get us moving. Tactical, what about that Corvette?"

In reply the _Drumhead_ shuddered under a hail of turbolaser, and ion cannon fire. He looked out the view port to see the Rebel Corvette race past the prow of his own hull. It was firing every weapon it could bring to bear at him. He saw an opportunity. Starships have the least amount of armament arrayed directly aft due to the necessity to place engines there. In affect, the Corvette's Captain had just exposed his most vulnerable side to him. Not only were fewer weapons pointed his way but also Rook now had a clear shot at the Rebel's most vital systems. "Tactical! Open up with everything you got on that…"

The rest of his order was lost in a crescendo of turbolaser and ion cannon fire. Over the _Drumhead_ a Mon Calamari cruiser rolled inverted at point blank range. The organic looking ship positively danced away from him; performing maneuvers more akin to a starfighter than the immense cruiser it was. It rolled below his bow and sped away from the Imperials with its engines protected under its distinctive stern; spitting turbolaser fire spitefully behind it.

From beside him Rook heard his First Officer say in a stunned voice, "We can't do that." Rook, knowing that every word his First Officer said was true, drove a fist through the man's face in a vicious backhand without even looking.

"Helm, get us moving!" Rook bellowed.

When nothing seemed to happen he wheeled towards his First Officer. The man was nursing a broken nose, but he was able to report, "We have lost all three main engines. We are progressing at best possible speed with the four emergency engines, but number five has sustained damage and is only able to give twenty percent thrust."

At least the man was performing his duty. Rook could see that his entire crew was working again as an Imperial ship required, but they seemed frantic, terrified as if some keystone of their training was missing. It was at that moment that Captain Rook Lasck knew that the Emperor had to be dead.

Where are you taking us? Kabayoth asked.

Daub was pointing the TIE directly at the nearest Star Destroyer. And it would appear that it was no place to be. While its mates were exploding or taking heavy fire, this one was fending off no fewer than two Calamari cruisers, a frigate and one of the Rebels's heavily armored transports without much difficulty. Even the massive Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ was in more trouble than this thorny hinge in the Imperial flank. Beyond, another Star Destroyer was limping in, apparently to support it. "That has to be the _Rampage_," Daub replied motioning towards the stolid Star Destroyer. "I tightened up its defense screen two months ago. We can approach, release our bombs, and be clear before they are the wiser I think."

I may be able to manage it. But pass under her belly. They may think we are trying to land, Kabayoth suggested.

It struck Daub as the correct approach, and so he obeyed Kabayoth without protest. "When do you want to release them?" Daub asked.

As close as we can. Otherwise they will shoot them down before they reach the target, and we will be fair game, Kabayoth replied.

Just then, a B-wing rushed at them. Daub tried to veer out of the way, but the Rebel scored two direct hits on the TIE bomber. "We're fair game now," he mused without humor. The console lit up in a festive array of colors, mostly red to tell him of system wide disaster. The flight controls became erratic and the rear view screens blanked out. "We're slowing down."

I can release them now, Kabayoth offered.

But fate appeared to favor them today. Just as the B-wing was about to get a better fix on them and finish the job, a TIE Interceptor rushed in and scored a near miss on the Rebel. The B-wing pilot shifted his attention towards the more immediate threat and broke off to deal with the Interceptor. While he did that the Star Destroyer sent out two TIE Fighters to escort the stricken Bomber in. "Gamma Lead, this is flight delta," a voice said over the COM. "We will escort you aboard now."

Daub would have thanked them to keep up appearances, but his ability to transmit was shot away by the Rebel.

The B-wing pilot tried two more times to attack them, but each time Daub's fighter escort drove him away. Slowly, the bow of the massive Star Destroyer slipped over them. Daub rolled the bomber to point the release hatch directly at the ship. His escort lead asked, "Gamma, are you having flight control difficulties? We can tractor you in if…"

"Now!" Daub said. A proton torpedo would have had difficulty in piercing the hull, but a space bomb could go far beyond that. The result was that the first one almost completely tore off the bow of the ship, completely smashing the primary sensor array. The huge ship pitched up as if it had struck some massive rock. Almost at once, concentrated fire became wild flailing about space. The Star Destroyer limping in to aid the _Rampage_ started to take some hits inadvertently sent its way.

All by itself, that one space bomb had shifted the balance of force on the Imperial flank. But Daub and Kabayoth still had nine more.

"What is that fool doing?" Rook asked as one green flash of turbolaser lanced out and struck out his forward deflector generator. Aimed shots were rarely so fortunate, but this one stray shot had almost been the death of him. It could have just as easily shot out his entire bridge; consequently, he counted a small favor despite his protests otherwise.

The Tactical Officer spoke up, "The _Chimaera_ is coming forward to defend us with her forward array."

Rook considered this for a second, "Very well. Tell Captain Palleaon to take a station directly ahead of us at three kilometers, and we will cover his advance." He gazed out the bridge window at the fighting in front of him. "Are those rebel ships in range yet?"

His first Officer answered, "They have slipped out of our line of sight, sir. The _Rampage_ is directly between them and our own batteries."

"Does the _Chimaera_ have a shot?" Rook knew that if the _Rampage_ was sending stray shots at his deflector arrays, then he could hardly count on it to take out a pair of Rebel ships that had crippled his own ship. Even if he survived this engagement, the _Drumhead_ was destined for months of space dock repairs. As a result he considered his Rebel opponents more seriously than ever. Unrelenting firepower had to be brought to bear on whatever target presented.

"No sir," the Tactical Officer reported. "Her only shots would be met by interference from the _Rampage's_ deflector shields."

Rook found himself breathing easier now. His crew had rallied themselves back into fighting shape. Aggressive initiative was still missing, but he could supply that in abundance.

Kabayoth released another bomb immediately after the first. It landed in the secondary hangar of the _Rampage_, and destroyed its entire compliment of assault troops. Their weapons added to the blast and began to collapse the interior spaces of the kilometer long ship. Imperial gunners now rushed to close doors and seal bulkheads. They found themselves putting out fires and fighting for their lives in very short order. They had scarcely arisen to the task when two more impacts shut down the power grid forward of the main hangar.

The TIE Interceptors were now frantically trying to shoot down the bomber but Daub's erratic controls could not keep Kabayoth and himself still. Still green laser fire scorched past the bomber. "We have to take care of those fighters," Daub grunted as he struggled to control the TIE.

Drop closer to the Star Destroyer and we'll try to clear them off with a space bomb blast, Kabayoth suggested.

Daub again found this to be the best thing to do. Turbolaser fire from the _Rampage_ had ceased entirely now that all aboard were now fighting for the life of the ship so their only worries were the fighters and the disintegrating craft around them. The TIE interceptors followed in close pursuit. Kabayoth released another bomb and the blast sent their bomber skittering away from the blast as though kicked aside.

The TIE Interceptor was caught directly in the blast and flew right into the explosion. He did not emerge. His partner managed to maneuver over the blast and scored a hit on one of the bomber's solar panels.

Kabayoth dropped three more bombs in the main hangar, and the resulting blast still did not consume the tenacious TIE Interceptor.

If we can get to the reactor cover, we can detonate this heap below us, Kabayoth growled.

"I need a few more seconds," Daub told him just as another hit rocked their craft. Tantalizingly ahead of them loomed the dome of the Star Destroyer's reactor cover. If they could reach it the remaining two bombs could cause the _Rampage_ to explode. But he had only one more second before a more direct hit took them out.

Then a tremendous flash of orange light transfixed everyone fighting before the _Death Star_.

"It's the _Executor_!" someone shouted aboard Rook's bridge. On the surface of the _Death Star_ a column of orange erupted like volcanic plume from the space station. His attention had been fixed on the _Rampage,_ but now he found himself unable to do anything more than gape at what had been eight kilometers of starship reduced now to smoldering metal. Staring in disbelief, he now found, to his surprise, that defeat was a very real possibility. How had this happened? All his life had led him to believe in the irresistible force of the Imperial Navy, and now one of its most potent instruments lay ruined above an insignificant moon at the hands of outmatched rebels. Where would this madness stop?

"Sir, the _Rampage_ reports that a single TIE bomber is attacking it with space bombs and requests that we destroy it." The report stunned Rook even further, _One of ours? _He wondered if all this was some mass mutiny, but logic quickly dismissed that by the virtue that his own crew was still obeying him.

"Lend no fighter support to the _Rampage_ and make sure that no Rebel fighters get into the superstructure of the _Death Star_," Rook told the COM officer. "If they can get the _Executor_, then they can get to the _Death Star_." He turned to his weapons officer a snobby little Lieutenant fresh from the academy. "Target that TIE bomber with turbolasers and vaporize it."

The Lieutenant rushed to obey his command, but in doing so knocked the real gunnery technician out of his seat to assume personal control. "This will be a tricky shot," he murmured. The _Drumhead_ lashed out at the _Rampage_ with lances of green light.

Never in all my years have I seen such an impressive display, Kabayoth growled. In front of them, just beyond the reactor, turbolaser fire was knocking off a section of the _Rampage_, while they remained utterly safe. Typically one did not linger near a target of a turbolaser, but there it was before them blossoming with furious detail, and close enough to touch. The reason for this safety was the _Rampage_ itself. Flying close enough to literally scrape the hull with an outstretched arm, Daub struggled to keep the bomber from colliding with the larger ship. The _Drumhead _was behind and above the _Rampage _and therefore any attempt to shoot Kabayoth and Daub down from there, was blocked by the Star Destroyer they had crippled. If the gunners on the _Drumhead_ had been patient, Daub would have risen above the hull to release his last two bombs and been in a clear line of fire. What must they be thinking to be so foolish? Kabayoth mused.

"They have to be desperate by now, Kabayoth," Daub reminded him. "Just as desperate as we are right now."

But events would soon prove this claim to be unfounded. Great hull plates of the _Rampage _were blasted free of the ship and were sent scattering down the length of the ship. Over the TIE bomber's hull but directly at the TIE interceptor chasing them. Before Daub had finished speaking, the Interceptor evaded more than thirty chunks of debris by rolling hard to his right and directly into a hull plate twelve meters across.

The B-wing pilot watched the whole display while he lined up on the interceptor. Seeing that the bomber was attacking the _Drumhead, _he reasoned that this was an ally to protect or an idiot to encourage. When the Interceptor smashed against the flying hull plate, he called out, "Whoa! TIE bomber, this is blue two. That bug on your tail has just been swatted." He had no way of knowing that his message was heard, but he did see the bomber rise and level off a bit before two more space bombs raced below it into the reactor dome.

The Star Destroyer split in two and detonated. In the confusion he lost track of the bomber that had single handedly brought down this titan.

Daub now raced for the surface at about one third of the top speed of the TIE bomber. It was as fast as it would go. No fighters pursued them, nor did the _Drumhead_ or _Chimaera _target them. Faced with the total collapse of their flank the fleet was struggling to close in and repair the damage. In essence, he had made a clean getaway; covering his escape with the exploding Star Destroyer.

The TIE was in no shape to fight now. All weapons were expended or off line, power was intermittent, and control was close to gone. They had just began entering the atmosphere of the Sanctuary moon when a great pressure wave rolled over them and pushed the TIE straight down into it faster than it was ever designed to fly.

"Sir, sensors indicate massive power fluctuations within the _Death Star_," Rook's first officer reported. "It's going to blow!"

"By the stars they actually did it!" Rook said stunned. Never in his life had he expected his world to collapse like this. It was a revelation on the most unpleasant order, but that did not let him sit and stew over it while he sat in harms way. Without a target to defend his first responsibility was to his crew. "Get us out of here!" He commanded. "Jump into hyperspace if we can." Slowly the massive ship turned to face clear space to escape into. There was an agony of waiting for the helm to respond. Slowly the view of the uncompleted _Death Star_ moved to the side while it slowly churned out its own destruction. Fighters dashed aboard their fleeing ship, but there were fewer of them than before. Seconds after the last fighter was retrieved, a mighty flash marked the end of the Empire.

The _Drumhead _heaved itself into hyperspace on only three of its emergency engines, but it was still a narrow escape. Cruising close to the _Death Star_, it narrowly missed being crushed by the pressure wave that its detonation caused.

They made it no more than four light years before they had to stop. The damage of the battle was too extensive to continue any further.

Rook, now in a rage, turned to his weapons officer. "You idiot!" he bellowed. "You just shot away our own flank guard back there!"

The Lieutenant tried to protest. "It was an impossible shot sir. I tried to bend our fire through the _Rampage's _deflector shield, but I was not aware that they had already gone off line."

Rook was not in the slightest bit satisfied with that answer. "You pushed aside more experienced gunners to take that shot, fool! They would have told you that a bit of patience is required." Rook clenched his fists ad set his jaw. "Lieutenant, I find your actions to be treason of the highest order. Guards! Shoot this incompetent fool dead where he stands!"

The Lieutenant saw fit to defend himself immediately. He yanked his blaster free of its holster, and pointed it at his Captain.

Rook moved with a preternatural speed that was mystifying, and the Lieutenant found the blaster pointed directly back at him before his thumb could have made the contact to fire. "Attempting to assault a superior officer, Lieutenant?" His tone was cold enough to freeze everyone on the bridge.

The Lieutenant could only babble, "How many times will you Lasck boys take a blaster from me?"

Rook froze. "What?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Your brother ripped that same blaster out of my hand on board the _Death Star_ when I transferred him from the brig," the Lieutenant explained.

Something clicked in Rook's mind. "Daub?" It occurred to him now that his brother might have been aboard the _Death Star_. It was possible that he was dead, but Daub had an impressive ability to survive. On the one hand he wanted Daub to be safe for, Imperial or Rebel, he was his brother, but in the other case he knew that Daub could do too much damage to the Empire to abide.

The facts also were ominous. A lone TIE bomber from the _Death Star_ had split the _Rampage _directly up the keel. It could have been anyone, but Daub had a talent for being that someone.

"How long until we are able to move again?" Rook asked his chief engineer.

Long ago in another life Daub had trained the man so Rook was not surprised when he said, "By this time tomorrow, if you need it, sir."

"Excellent, get right to work." He turned to his left, "COM, raise Coruscant. I need to contact Grand Admiral Plact and Mithras Lasck."

Rook turned to the Lieutenant. "And you did not kill him for taking your blaster?" Rook shook his head as though to an erring child, and shot the Lieutenant before he could respond.


	2. Endor

The broken limbs of shattered trees provided good fuel for a warm fire that night so Kabaytoth and Daub did not need to exert themselves to find it. A single log, about the girth of a man's midriff, had fallen a few feet from the crash and easily fulfilled their needs. The TIE bomber's power cells started the fire easily enough after cracking them against one of the smashed solar panels. The evening proved to be quite temperate though, so they stayed a good distance from the flames.

"Is the leg feeling better, Kabayoth?" Daub asked.

No, I think it is a more substantial break than I first realized, Kabayoth replied.  
I think I can feel the bone trying to pierce the hide. He bared his teeth and gave a low growl. I can bear it. It's those power cells that you broke that worry me. Do you really feel it wise to waste them that way?

"Look that TIE is never going to run under its own power again unless about seventy percent of it is overhauled right down to the last bolt." Daub glared at the twisted wreck with undisguised contempt, "It just about killed us anyway. I would rather be stuck here than try to reach an orbit that the Rebels could find us at in that." He now sounded disgusted with the Rebellion. Despite the great victory gained here, he could not quite shake the feeling that victory would cost him more personally than the Death Star could take.

Kabayoth, however, was jubilant through his pain. They will come for us, my friend. We split a Star Destroyer right up the keel; surely, they can't ignore that.

Daub remained grim. A deep scowl furrowed his brow as he stirred the hot embers, and for the first time, Kabayoth saw the real signs of strain in the human. So to distract himself from the pain and to drag Daub from his malaise he cast his thoughts out aloud. I haven't been home in fifteen years, Kabayoth growled. I wonder what remains of my home, after all this time.

Daub actually grinned for the first time. "I thought you Wookees lived five hundred years or so," he chuckled. "Pardon me for saying so, but that kind of time doesn't seem to compare to fifteen with much severity."

Kabayoth woofed out his own laughter gently so as not to offend his wounded limb. We may see more of it, but time passes slowly for any slave. The years have bent me just as harshly as they have you. He paused and cast a long thoughtful gaze at the stars. My mate was the affectionate type anyway, he said not lowering his eyes. She often told me how sharp my absence was felt, even for a day. He lowered his gaze back to the enormous trees all about them. This may be a fine oasis for me. Stars, I know I could thrive here! But the green forests of Kashyyyk make even this sanctuary a pale, stunted meadow. And Tahnchata calls to me from wherever she is.

It was the first time Daub had heard Kabayoth speak the name of his mate. Wookie society did not allow one to speak casually about family. And to know the names of a Wookie's family members was a courtesy only extended to the closest of friends and the family itself. Daub sensed a certain gravity descend upon his friend, "I can't guarantee that you'll see her again, Kabayoth."

The shaggy figure shook with gentle laughter in the flickering gloom. Then you'd better see to it that I live through this night so I may repay my debt…

Daub cut him off. "No!" he barked sternly, "No, Kabayoth, no," he shook his head wearily. "I will not risk a friend on the whim of some, self imposed, ill advised code of honor." His eyes descended to the flames again. "You will go home, Kabayoth, and see to it that Tahnchata lives to see you again. I won't see the honor you've bestowed upon me rendered meaningless when you die in my service."

The gods, Daub, not I demand it. Tahnchata would not see her mate stain his honor that way. Kabayoth shook his shaggy head in wonder. Besides, he added, the way you live, will insure the swift payment of my debt.

They sat in silence, watching the Mon Calamari cruisers drift above the planet. From here, they were bright specs only slightly larger than the surrounding stars. Daub found himself wondering if the victory achieved would be substantial enough to last. "_Imperial_ class Star Destroyers can be seen almost as a distinct shape at this range," Daub mused. "_Super_ class Star Destroyers can be clearly identified by even the dim sighted."

I know, Kabayoth said. The Mon Calamari ships seem so humble next to the Imperial examples.

Sudden resolve steeled Daub as he spoke again. "I don't think they can stand against them for long."

They succeeded here, Kabayoth reasoned, they can press on to a successful end.

Daub looked skeptical. "I don't know." His eyes focused past the stars into memory. "They thought they had them in a trap that they couldn't get out of, but were too stuck on the plan to modify it when the Rebels pressed into close range. A single man can make that kind of mistake. Imperial commanders would never think to override the Emperor's direct orders." He paused thoughtfully. "The numbers don't add up. Not even a determined opponent can hope to prevail against the kind of firepower the Empire has at its disposal. Tactics and skill can carry battles for only so long. It's only a matter of time before the Rebels can no longer sustain their losses."

You're forgetting the political support they have gained with this victory Kabayoth reminded him. The numbers have changed for the better.

Daub remained skeptical, "There are still a lot of blasters pointed the Rebellion's way." He cast an angry glare back towards the TIE wrecked under the trees. "The Imperial high command won't hesitate to use them either. We can't count on one man's miscalculation to carry the war." His expression froze as an idea formed almost all at once.

Kabayoth seemed to follow Daub's line of thought immediately. What if those blasters were not aimed at us?

"The odds form up in our favor," Daub said completing the thought. "They have tried the same thing on us a number of times." He leaned forward into the flickering light. The flames revealed eyes that glittered with hope for the first time in seven years. Then he slapped the palm of his hand decisively. "Powerful men keep close eyes on each other, and surround themselves with ambitious subordinates."

And all of them can be mislead, Kabayoth finished.

"By their own greed," Daub added.

The two friends grappled with the strategy the rest of the night.

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About mid-morning the Wookie and Daub received some cautious visitors. The leader was short compared to either of these interlopers in his forest, but amongst his own kind, he was an immense specimen. A chieftain from a vast village nearby, he was at first alarmed when the sky-creature had screamed out of the clouds. The creatures had always flown straight and smooth across the sky in the past, but this one twisted and turned in wild gyrations as if it were in its death throws. When it became clear that it was going to drop from the sky, the chieftain had tried desperately to move his village out of its path, but the time was too late for that. No sooner had the creature appeared than it plowed into his forest making the spirits of many trees suffer for its own misfortune in broken branches, limbs, even entire spirits reduced to stumps in a chaotic din of tortured metal. But, mercifully, the creature had fallen just short of his home.

No one, not even the scouts he had looking for the white-clad creatures, had been anywhere near the crash on the ground. But the chieftain had taken care to make sure that all were accounted for before he rounded up every scout, warrior, and hunter he had in the village to get whatever crawled out of the sky-creature's belly.

Now that he could see the thing, he was sure that it belonged to the alien invaders that had caused his people so much grief in the past few seasons. The large regular shape of one of the panels could still be identified. Plus its dull, stone gray color also classified it as one of the hated beasts of the aliens.

Although his first instinct was to attack the beings sitting and chatting at the fire in front of the thing, he held his spear down. Neither of the aliens was in the uniform of the invaders, and neither appeared greatly alarmed at being marooned in the forest. All the white-clad invaders had always appeared disdainful of his homeland or even close to panic. But the most puzzling thing was the larger one. He was enormous. Not only that but he had as shaggy a pelt as the chieftain's own, and the invaders had all been covered in pale, hairless skin. The chieftain from mountain grove village had sent news of a similar being that had helped in a battle against the invaders. "He was of terrific height. More than four times our own, brother," the messenger had repeated. "Covered in long, straight fur the color of heartwood. No words did he speak, nor gestures did he use to communicate, only the softest sounds of the great bears of the deserts passed his lips." The description could apply to the large one in all but color, which was a dirty grey. But the chieftain mused that if his own kind could possess the diversity of fur patterns that it did; then so could any other alien.

The other one still gave the chieftain pause. He was still much larger than any of his kind could ever hope to be, but no more than twice his own size. From his demeanor, he could gather a greatly agitated state of mind. Occasionally he would erupt in loud, short outbursts to no minor effect to his companion. Plus he spoke the same guttural language of the invaders with a great, deep boom of a voice that made many of his warriors shudder. "I swear the hairless one rattles my very bones with his call," his son told the Chieftain.

The Chieftain motioned for the boy to be silent, but no damage had been done. The two beings appeared quite involved with their discussion, and were oblivious to an outburst that would have driven off wild game at twelve lance throws. With motions, his medicine man gathered his attention. "What do you see?" the Chieftain motioned back.

"The larger one is injured," the medicine man told him. "See how he holds his leg? I believe that he broke a bone. You'll also notice he hasn't risen to his feet. This would give us an advantage if we should take them now. I can also tell you from the larger one's pelt and his scent that he is gravely malnourished, and on the verge of being quite ill."

The Chieftain considered this for a moment. Then slowly raised his spear signaling a walking advance. Lances, bows, and stone axes were held forward just as the wind shifted with them.

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I smell something, Kabayoth said suddenly. And just as said this, the Ewoks emerged from the forest.

Daub actually laughed. The creatures held weapons of Stone Age vintage in menacing readiness, but they were short, furry, and about as threatening as any number of pets that humans possessed. There were, however, a great many of them. Daub thought he could overpower a few but not all of them. So he smiled, raised his hands, and wondered what would become of Kabayoth and himself.

The one in charge motioned towards Daub, and spoke a few short, shrill words. About a dozen Ewoks surrounded him; holding spears to his throat. Another one approached Kabayoth. After a few moments, it became clear that this one was a doctor of some sort. Some more of the shrill language was spoken, and some of the smaller ones pitched themselves headlong into the forest. More orders were given and another small one stood next to one of Kabayoth's feet with the apparent intention of handling the injured limb in some way.

Daub stood in alarm. He hadn't fully set the leg, and Kabayoth would be powerless to stop them from doing much. One of his guards screeched out a warning of some sort.

Be patient, Daub, I think… Kabayoth started to say.

But one Daub's guards screeched out another warning, and plunged his spear into Daub's thigh. In a reflex action Daub reached down and yanked out the spear; leaving the stone spearhead in his leg. His guards stepped back a pace just as a bloodcurdling crack and a deafening howl was heard coming from Kabayoth. In the same instant the small Ewok that had been standing by Kabayoth's leg came sailing through the air right at Daub. He had just enough time to raise his hands to catch the furry being before he was knocked to the ground by the impact.

His guards simply stepped out of his way while he was falling, and surrounded him again as he hit the ground. Then, without hesitation, the one who had stuck Daub reached out and yanked the stuck spearhead free of his leg. Daub howled in pain; hurling the Ewok on his chest airborne again. His hands clutched his wounded thigh, and he gritted his teeth in pain. The outstretched paws of Kabayoth grabbed the unfortunate Ewok from the air before he collided with a tree. Kabayoth set the little creature down then set to breathing heavily through his pain just as Daub was.

The Chieftain spoke to the small one for a moment. The small one's reply was followed by a short, absolute silence, then by an uproar of laughter. The Ewoks became quite animated and jabbered hoarsely between gusts of laugher. Apparently, the violent little scene was the funniest thing they had ever seen.

Kabayoth's leg was set in a splint, and Daub's leg was sewn closed and bound. They motioned for Daub to rise without pointing their weapons at him. He managed to stand, but he couldn't walk without an extravagant limp.

He saw them making a litter of some sort. At first he thought they might carry him out of here, but they placed Kabayoth on it. Then they motioned for him to pick up one end of the litter while six of their number held the other end. The one in charge then led them out of the clearing and onto a trail that, unbeknownst to Daub or Kabayoth, led towards the Death Star's shield generator.


	3. The Grand Admirals

_How could we prepare for this?_ Thought Grand Admiral Il-Raz as he looked out the window of the Imperial Palace. _How will we manage without Him?_ It was the question he and his fellow Grand Admirals had gathered to discuss. _No, to answer,_ he corrected himself.

The problem was simply put. How does an Empire survive without an Emperor? By definition it was a contradiction in terms. Palpatine had left no room for his loss. Perhaps it was a sign of his paranoia that the void created by his absence would topple what he had built; meaning, he had left no heirs, no protégées, no family, or regent capable of taking his place.

Militarily speaking, the problem was compounded by a visibly popular revolt. How does the military serve its subjects when they will not serve he who directs it? The evidence clearly supported that the subjects of the Empire regarded recent events as the passing of a cruel tyrant. Even now, Il-Raz could see the rubble that once was a statue of the Emperor surrounded by celebrating Coruskants. For all practical purposes, they could be dancing about Il-Raz's own carcass down there. He never before felt so confused or abandoned in his entire career.

The doors to the room opened, and a man in a white uniform entered. He marched directly to his appropriate chair, and seated himself without ceremony.

"That would be all of us," said Grand Admiral Grunger. With a regal wave of his hand, he motioned for the doors to close so that the meeting could begin in earnest. "What kept you so long Syn?" he demanded of the newcomer.

Grand Admiral Syn rubbed his brow wearily, "Force dispositions are still coming in, Grunger, and we need to know them if we are to proceed."

Grand Admiral Takel seemed annoyed with that defense. "Let Grunger and Batch handle that, Syn. We have a full blown revolt on our hands while you worry about your precious fleet."

Syn seemed unsurprised by this assault on his credibility. "At least I can stay objective while you flaunt your temper, Takel."

Takel looked ready to throw himself at the other man. "We have to have objectives before we array the fleet, you pompous…"

A thin, dry voice cut through the exchange like a blaster bolt, "Enough! Be silent, gentlemen, or resign your commissions right now." The voice belonged to Grand Admiral Grant, a white haired, thin veteran of the Clone Wars. Unlike all the others about the table, he could trace his career back to the Old Republic. He had been involved with Palpatine's ascension to power, and the dissolving of both the Republican and Imperial Senates. By seniority, capability, ruthlessness, and force of will he had survived all that while others about him vanished like so much sand through parted fingers. He had listened to both Obi-Wan Kenobi give the orders of a General, and lived to hear Darth Vader tell of his demise. He had watched the Old Republic crippled by the weight of its own government, and watched the Emperor dismiss it with a single command. He had fought no fewer than three major interstellar wars; no one questioned his authority.

In theory all twelve Grand Admirals were of equal stature and power, in actuality the pecking order was a complex mix of politics, experience, favoritism, and past exploits. To be more concise, the most powerful was whoever was center stage at the moment to Palpatine. Amongst themselves the Grand Admirals played power games constantly, but they were wise enough to recognize ability when they saw it. Grant commanded them all by virtue of his long service to the Emperor, and a particular genius in all matters of strategic importance. If a direction was to be found out of this, he was the one to find it. His position could be usurped at any time, but none at the table saw any wisdom in that. Besides, some of their number was now orbiting the sanctuary moon of a savage planet in scattered, charred pieces. A weak sense of brotherhood had fostered as a result, and brothers look to the eldest for guidance.

"We will conduct this meeting as Grand Admirals or not at all." Grant glared down the table, forcing the others to their seats by sheer force of will. When it was clear that the mood had cooled to his satisfaction, he began the meeting in earnest. "Syn, what can you tell us of the fleet?"

Grand Admiral Syn cast a weary gaze down towards Grant, and leaned heavily back in his chair. "The _Death Star_, _Executor_, and dozen or so _Imperial _class Star Destroyers are all reduced to debris now. Roughly half of the surviving forces are not fit for combat, and all of the surviving forces are scattered completely about the four quadrants. Information is still sketchy, but it looks like a rout any way you display it." Syn gave a heavy sigh and continued. "Panic is spreading through the commands so a more complete and reliable picture probably won't manifest itself for some time yet."

Grand Admiral Takel seized upon the news with seething frustration, "And what of the rebels, Syn? We must meet our threat if it aims itself this way."

Syn's expression actually brightened a bit. The weariness lifted and was replaced by mild curiosity. "Batch?" He asked, "What can you tell us?"

Grand Admiral Batch looked grim; "The good news is that we would appear safe here at Coruscant for the time being. Our spotters report that at least fifteen percent of the Rebel fleet is destroyed. With a beating like that, it might be safe to assume that it will take them some time to mount a new offensive against us."

Batch held up a hand to emphasize his next point. "Strangely, some of their forces left shortly after the battle. It would appear by the size of the group and the trajectory into hyperspace, that a raid or strike on our forces out in the rim might be under way." He brought his hand down and looked searchingly about the table. "A strike at Endor now could crush them with ease." When no one offered forces for such a strike he slammed his fist onto the table. "We can harvest their ships like grain before a massed fleet! Who is holding our reserves?"

Il-Raz spoke up for the first time. "We have no reserves, Batch. We have a rabble of scattered ships, panicked officers, and mobs of shattered commands. To send them into Endor would only deplete our manpower and embolden the Rebels."

"We must act if we are to clear this up!" Batch shot Syn and Il-Raz an angry stare fit for a brawl. "If we stand here and do nothing the Empire, as we know it, will crumble."

Grunger drummed his fingers on the table in frustration. "It may be too late to save all of it, Batch. Perhaps it would be in our best interests to consolidate what we hold in the firmest grasp. Our industry, our holdings, and the most loyal systems could be itemized and protected by the end of the day."

At that moment the door burst open. A reed thin man entered carrying a datapad and a head full of attitude. Grand Moff Pelseron had made it a habit to make dramatic entrances throughout his career, and it had served him well. Never a man at a loss for words, he was one to have the key bits of info at any one time. As a subordinate, he was that officer to tell a superior exactly what they wanted to hear. Even if it were not true he would say it with a strait face, and then pull every string, step on any toe, lie, cheat and steal to make it true. It was widely regarded that those were the qualities that had brought him into favor with the Emperor. If the Emperor wanted to be congratulated on his rise to power, Pelseron was the man he sought out. But despite his groveling nature, he was a master of political intrigue. He had risen to the top upon the backs of discarded careers, and he had enjoyed every bit of it. Everyone knew he was setting his sights on a new challenge by appearing here.

Pelseron surveyed the room with a slow accusing eye. "I am sure that my lack of an invitation was an oversight," he said coldly. "After all the Emperor's personal envoy should be informed of any and all plans that you men are about to make."

For once Takel's temper reflected everyone's feelings on the room. "Outrageous!" he shouted. "The Emperor had no appointed regent in the event of his death."

Pelseron was unruffled by Takel's outburst, and addressed all in a cordial voice. "You are mistaken. The Emperor did in fact appoint me his representative while he was on the Death Star." A wistful smile lit his face for a moment. The trap was half set, and Takel was gleefully springing it in the most dramatic fashion possible. "He told me he would be too busy crushing the rebels to properly govern during his absence. So he delegated state business to my office as soon as he left for Endor."

"Upstart!" Takel exploded. "I'll have your head mounted on the head of my flagship for this intrusion."

"I'm afraid the Moffs would not look too kindly on that, Takel," Pelseron purred. He had added a quiet insult by addressing a Grand Admiral in such an informal way. Only a Grand Admiral could address another by his name, and all others had to observe the official protocols and acknowledge their rank with their name. In a way that was more fitting: these men were more their rank than individuals by now. They were the supreme Imperials amongst Imperials, and Pelseron had dismissed that carelessly away. But his breach of contempt was not over yet; "They have already made me their representative in this counsel."

"And why do we care what the Moffs think?" Grunger asked mildly. "Militarily speaking, we are in no need of a bunch of zealots always demanding a free ride from our fleets." Within that statement laid a very pressing question. When the Emperor had created the title of Moff he had never specified what exactly the title involved. Since the Moffs were all promoted from the Imperial Army, it had been assumed that it was another version of an Army rank used in the Old Republic that the Emperor had wanted to reinstate. But from the start the Moffs could be found in every dark corner of power. And to complicate matters further, the title of Grand Moff was created. These few men would be found performing the roles of Army commanders, regional governors, overall force commanders, and political representatives. Grand Moff Tarkin in particular had done much that had blurred the line that a Moff was not to cross. The first _Death Star_ had been under his control despite the fact that it clearly fell under the control of the Imperial Navy. But it had been Tarkin's project to build it from the start; consequently, the reasoning that he would direct his vision to completion muted many questions. As it turned out, Tarkin would command the _Death Star_ to its demise. He would have not lived much beyond the first _Death Star's_ destruction, so he had played his gamble up to his last living breath. The Grand Admirals had received much favor since Yavin, but the Moffs and Grand Moffs still managed to distance themselves from Tarkin's disaster. In due course, they had blurred the line further to greater fog Papatine's accusations leaving the question unanswered to their own advantage.

Pelseron adopted a look of paternal concern. "How else will you control the governors? I have their support and their complete confidence. Without their support your fleets will be starving, scattered wrecks drifting through the void with mutinous crews."

"So your telling us you've gained control of the Imperial treasury," Grunger growled. "All that can be changed with a single command."

Grant spoke up now, "Admiral, let's not be rash." All faces turned now towards the old Admiral with looks of utter shock. Grant could even see a Stormtrooper craning his helmet into the room. He smiled to himself. It always amused him to stun these youngsters like this. "If the Moffs wish to steer the state, then we are free to take care of the rebels ourselves; therefore I'm sure that the Moffs will not mind if we assume control of their forces."

Pelseron, for his part, did little to indicate the panic he felt. "That would seem a bit drastic, Admiral. I'm sure that the Moffs would be an asset to any operation you may undertake." He spoke as though he were trying to make Grant see a grave error.

"Nonsense, Pelseron, in a crisis like this one, we cannot afford to have our attention divided from our respective tasks. I would welcome the Moffs' and governors' delegating the less pressing matters of policy while we consolidate our strength."

Grunger raised an objection. "You know they would not stop there, Admiral."

"And just where would they go, Grunger? We have control of their forces. That makes a coup impossible for him to mount. Plus, it shortens the chain of command making our actions swifter and firmer. I'm sure he realizes it as well as his colleagues do." Grant spoke as though Pelseron had nothing like a power grab in mind.

Grunger saw at once what Grant had in mind. "Splendid," he beamed a gloating smile Pelseron's way.

Il-Raz, also seeing the wisdom of Grant's reason, started in at once. "Guards, see to it that Grand Moff Pelseron gets a chair."

Pelseron was still looking for a way out of this trap Grant had turned on him when a chair was brought to the table in front of him. "I must…"

"Sit down," Syn cut him off.

"We must continue," chimed in Il-Raz.

"You were saying, Admiral Grunger?" asked Takel.

Grunger waved the doors again closed. "Yes, as I was saying. I believe that we might consider consolidating our assets." He keyed a control and the holoprojectors brought up a map of the Empire. "Some of these systems are clearly under rebel control." He motioned at a few of the stars in the map. "Endor, Sullust, and Mon Cal would appear to be in rebel hands."

Batch pointed out another system on the map. "Coruscant would be a wise system to abandon in the near future."

Pelseron gave a start of surprise, "Preposterous. We are as safe here on Coruscant as we are within a Super Star Destroyer. It would be suicide for the Rebels to attempt an assault here."

Il-Raz spoke up. "Look outside, Pelseron. Those people are celebrating the death of the Emperor, not our ascension to power."

"I have to side with Pelseron on this one, Il-Raz," Grunger said. "I can see no need to abandon Coruscant now. Our subjects will be back at work in the morning regardless of Palpatine's demise. Besides, this is the most heavily defended system in the Core worlds," he turned to Batch. "What makes you think we should abandon this stronghold?"

Batch thoughtfully continued on as he explained his plan. "If we abandon this world, we can lull the rebel high command into thinking that they have utterly shattered our resolve. Consequently, we would promote the kind of overconfidence we could exploit to our advantage." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Also we could lure the Rebel Alliance leadership here under our closest scrutiny. You all know of the counterintelligence apparatus we have in place on this world. We could set it against the rebels with deadly force; therefore, they would not be able to make a single move without our knowledge."

"A well conceived plan," Il-Raz said.

Grunger was clearly uneasy. "A trifle risky, Batch." His brow furrowed in concentration. "How would we dislodge the rebels once they seated themselves here? With the kind of firepower stationed here, we would be hard pressed to mount a successful assault."

Syn appeared impatient, "We can bring superior forces here, Grunger. So long as I have a target to array my forces at, I can overcome it. Even Coruscant's massed defenses can be overcome by systematic consideration."

Takel glared at Syn, "And what would be the cost of that kind of endeavor, Syn. It would use up half the fleet and raze the planet."

"Perhaps you are clumsy enough to be so destructive, but I can assure you that I could take back the planet without so much as damaging the architecture," Syn replied.

"Of all the arrogant…" Takel hissed.

"Gentlemen!" Pelseron barked. "This is nonproductive and immature. We must not turn against each other at this most critical hour." He looked to Grant for support and found an approving smile drifting down the table. Emboldened he went on, "Abandoning Coruscant would also send a message to our own subjects that we are on the run. I think you all will agree with me that such sentiments we would wish to avoid." There were nods of agreement around the room. "Therefore, a show of strength would prove who is really in charge in the Galaxy. The assassination of our Emperor is a great political windfall for the rebellion, but it need not be a fatal one for the Empire itself. In time a new Emperor will reveal himself after the rebellion is crushed and we are able to appoint one."

"A new Emperor?" Il-Raz asked dazedly. The possibility had not occurred to him. "But that would constitute a new Empire without ties to the bloodline after our tenure of regency."

Takel seemed intrigued by the notion. "Perhaps we could change our doctrine to improve our clout among the systems. A more benevolent Empire our subjects would be less likely to take up arms against."

"I agree," Syn said. "Policy must change to seduce the systems back into the fold of Imperial control."

For once Takel did not fume in response to Syn's comments. But Pelseron did. "A supplicating, groveling Empire would only be a show of our weakness in the face of these insurgent criminals. And I can see no way to remove marshal law when we are clearly in a state of crisis. We must keep the systems in fear of us like the Tarkin doctrine has directed." He regarded the Grand Admirals in clear disbelief. "Surely you can see that we would in effect reward our subjects for the death of one Emperor by kowtowing to their desires."

Syn tried another tact, "If His subjects would have loved Palpatine they wouldn't have assassinated Him, Pelseron."

"Then you would dismantle the Emperor's New Order in favor of the chaos that the Old Republic supported," Pelseron shot back. "You would see the Galaxy crippled by bureaucrats and gridlock." He adopted a look of horror as he continued, "I cannot accept that the Empire should in any fashion be remolded to the demands of terrorists and naïve idealists. I will not command the state to initiate any such policies. And I must admit that there mere suggestion to be treasonous to my own knowledge."

"Treason is relative to the circumstances, Pelseron," said Grunger with a dismissive gesture. "As a student of all monarchies, I can tell you that any of us violate our oaths of fealty by simple gestures of life several times over before we die." He directed his attention towards Grant, "You can appreciate the truth of that can't you, Admiral?"

Without flinching Grant replied, "Absolutely, Grunger. We must be mature in our attitudes towards duty. Our responsibilities do allow us that kind of freedom now that a crisis confronts us. Certainly the Emperor's own example could be a testament to that." He referred of Palpatine's own path to power. Certainly by Old Republic standards, the Emperor was anything but a patriot to his original office of Republican Senator. It had been his job to preserve the Old Republic and protect the rights of its citizens. Instead he had seized all power in ways he had justified by the very standards he was sworn to oppose.

Pelseron looked even more shocked than before, "Then you support wrecking the system to suit the situation?"

Grant looked blandly at the younger man. "You have demanded control of policy, Pelseron, and you shall have it. However, if you ignore our input, you will fragment the Empire from within the hierarchy. I will not allow you to dismember this council, nor will I allow you to install yourself as a new Emperor. Governors and Moffs aside, I control the Fleet, Army, and Stormtrooper corps. So if it ever comes to threats, my bag of tricks is far more credible. My fellow Grand Admirals and I will remove any who do not support us." He smiled in a satisfied way as he pronounced his last, "And unlike your station, I have clear authority to do so."

Pelseron frowned. Grant had just smashed any ambitions he would ever have. He was to remain in an office without power, and fight over the traces left after the Grand Admirals had divvied up the source. His hope of Emperor was far fetched he knew, but he had hoped to be in charge. Grant had maneuvered him into a powerful trap, and he was now hopelessly inside of it. The crafty side of his mind, however, still insisted there was a way out of this. "I will not enforce any doctrine I don't endorse," he said firmly.

Grant was silent. So it was Grunger who spoke for the council, "We would not have it any other way, Pelseron. But you have to listen to what we have to say, or we cannot support you either."

Silence weighed heavily throughout the room for a few tense moments until Il-Raz decided to return to the business at hand. "Strategy, Grant. We are groping in the dark without a direction to pursue."

Grant closed his eyes and furrowed his brow on concentration. Without opening his eyes he asked, "Where are they receiving their supplies?"

"From every system in some fashion or another," Batch replied. "Token amounts that add up after they are gathered."

"Impossible to interdict without flawless intelligence," Takel commented.

"Those X-wings they use against us," Grunger murmured, "they have to come from somewhere. The same is true for all their fighter types and their capitol ships."

"Mon Cal could be garrisoned and the corporations that produce the fighter types seized and shut down," Il-Raz offered.

"Batch," Grant said, "see to it that Incom, Slayn and Korpil, Blissex, and Koesayr are shut down and the Mon Calimari shipyards garrisoned. Also follow the shipping rout to where the rebels receive their goods." He shifted in his seat and opened his eyes. "Takel, take a fleet to Endor and try to engage the rebel fleet again; we may be able to wear them down by sheer force of numbers. Grunger, search for any place they may run to, and be waiting for them to arrive. Pelseron, the rebels are getting money and political support from somewhere, shut it all off. I want these rebels running, scared, undersupplied, harassed at every turn, and without a credit among them. And I want the pressure to stay on until they implode. Are we in agreement?" The men nodded their agreement and left the room.

Il-Raz was about to leave when Grant caught Syn and him before they went out the door. "Batch asked a question you deflected before it could be answered, Il-Raz."

Il-Raz was confused, "Which one would that be, Grant?"

Syn at once seized upon Grant's train of thought, "Who holds our reserves?"

"Exactly," Grant confirmed. "I'm asking you now, Admiral, why did you deflect a solid answer?"

Il-Raz was a little annoyed, "Are you accusing me of plotting against the council, Grant?" His brow furrowed in rage. In his entire career he had never had his loyalty questioned, and it made little sense to start now. Accusations had a way of dismantling personal credibility more effectively than actual guilt.

"In private, yes," Grant replied. "Syn can serve as a discreet witness to what follows."

Furious, Il-Raz spoke. "If memory serves me, I sought to make a point about how the fleet must be considered. Reserves or not, we command a mob not fleets."

"Syn, his answer satisfies me, but does he convince you?" Grant said.

Syn gave a rare display of thoughtful consideration before his expression descended back into action. "I have known Il-Raz his entire career, Grant, as a superior and as a fellow Grand Admiral. And in all that time, he was the first to point out the facts and never obscured reality. I can detect nothing about him that could have changed that."

Grant smiled, "Well spoken, Admiral." He turned to Il-Raz, "I withdraw the accusation. Let it never leave this room."

Grant motioned the two Admirals back to their seats. "I have reports that a member of the council is seizing the Emperor's assets here on Coruscant. Maybe more now that Pelseron has dragged the Moffs into the arena."

"Who?" asked Il-Raz.

"Why, Grand Admiral Grunger of course," replied Grant. "You noticed that he was against abandoning this place. You can now see that he has the most to lose." The old admiral smiled impishly. "At this point the only real danger from his activities is the obvious sway they hold on his judgment."

Syn instantly reverted to role of administrator, "If he is so worried about his assets here on Coruscant, then the best way to use him is to have him defend the system personally."

Il-Raz could see the sense in Syn's reasoning, but still felt a twinge of reservation. "I'm sure he would defend Coruscant brilliantly, Admiral, but what would stop him from seizing more of the Emperor's assets."

Grant waved a dismissive hand, "His greed is immaterial to his judgment, Il-Raz. As far as I'm concerned he can move into the Imperial palace, so long as he fulfills his duties."

There was much food for thought on that point. The personal fortune of the Emperor could scarcely be measured. It was not infinite, but it was so large that the Minister of the Treasury often joked that he could see where infinity started from atop the final figure. Therefore, embezzling even huge sums could scarcely make any difference to the total sum. But if Grunger put his agenda above the Empire's…

"Is his judgment impaired?" Il-Raz felt critically uninformed now, the sensation was altogether unpleasant. Being behind on information, be it gossip or otherwise, was often fatal in his position. His entire career could link his success to knowing the information before he entered any room; therefore, the utter shock of Grunger's activities severely rattled the Grand Admiral right down to the marrow.

Syn wearily rubbed his brow. "If Grunger feels he needs the trappings of Imperial luxury to perform his duties, then I say let him have whatever he wants. He can have the reserves. He is only undermining his position in the council by carving out a hole for himself. My work is fleet bound."

"So he does have our reserves," Grant said.

"Certainly,"Syn responded, "He's systematically arrayed them about the Deep Core."


	4. Back to the Cage

"What did you do?" Han demanded of Lando.

Lando, embarrassed, told him, "It's not like I wanted this to happen, Han, but you must admit that we had her inside a construction site at full throttle. All things considered, I returned her to you intact."

Han remained unimpressed with his friend. "You said, 'Not a scratch,' Lando. The main sensor dish and my upper turret are missing. Now don't tell me that you simply lost them somewhere."

It was exactly like that, Lando mused. One second they were unblemished, and the next moment the upper half of the _Millennium Falcon _was gone. "I'll tell you what, Han, I'll let my people work on it…"

Han cut him off. "I have two words for you, Lando: _Never again_! I'll clean her up, I'll fix her, and I'll certainly fly her from here on out. This is the last time I trust her to any other person other than myself."

Lando had expected this turn in the conversation. Indeed he had predicted every word Han had said down to the very last syllable. It amused him somewhat that he could read Han so well, but he did not allow it to show, doing so would enrage Han even further. A master gambler could read his opponents in depth with only scattered input, and Lando Calrissian counted himself among those reckless few who made it their stock and trade. It was his talent as a gambler that had allowed the Rebels to win the battle yesterday.

On the surface, all the decisions Lando had made or affected during the battle were enormous mistakes. He had been the first to realize there was a trap, but he had told Admiral Ackbar to wait in that trap until the shield fell. When they had been faced with destruction from an operational Death Star, he had told Ackbar to press the attack into the waiting turbolasers of the Imperial fleet. A more level head would have extracted his force on each occasion to fight another day.

Lando was willing to make these decisions due to his understanding of his opponents and allies. He knew that Han could drop that shield, but judging from his situation, Han had hit similar difficulties. Difficulties usually required a little time to adjust to and fix; consequently, he was willing to stay in an obvious trap until Han could get things under control. When the Imperial fleet remained on station he read that the Imperial Admiral in charge of that fleet was bound by some order not to engage them; therefore, that Admiral was not expecting someone with a weak hand in the game to raise the stakes. Men thus caught off guard always became reactionary, and could be lead around as they tried to extract themselves from a game that they had no right to lose. Ackbar did not see it that way, but he was not convinced he could win the game. Therefore, he had tried to survive, in order to do that Ackbar had to win. In the end, Lando could only be astonished by how well it had all gone.

Lando personally mourned the damage he had inflicted on the _Millennium Falcon_, but he knew he would never convince his friend of the fact until the damage was repaired. Nonetheless, he intended to do something for Han and the ship that had saved his life. "I'll pay for the parts then," he offered.

"You'll find a good supplier too," Han growled.

Lando raised his hands with theatrical flair. "Would I short change my buddy?" He spoke with the same exaggerated sincerity he used to lull his fellow gamblers to their ruin. Anything to break the tension.

Han cast a level gaze at his friend. "That time on Bespin comes to mind," he said coldly.

Lando conceded defeat, "All right, you have me there." Every trace of animation left his voice, and he put away all his tools as a gambler and as a leader so he might spare a truly dear friendship. "I'll call my stockyard on Mon Cal and have whatever you need by the end of the day."

Han appeared satisfied. "Chewi and I will get started on a list, and I'll have it to you in a few hours." He turned his attention back to the ship, and mercifully changed the subject a little.

"We have to take as many of the wounded back to the medical frigate as we can. Are there any problems with the upper docking collar?" Han was all business now.

Lando told him he did not know, but he would not trust it. He then listed off a number of problems he had experienced since the battle. Some Han became alarmed at, but a great number of them he was already familiar with. After that Han, Lando, and Chewbacca crawled into and over every bit of the _Falcon_ to find any problem that would endanger a flight. After a couple of hours, they had discovered enough small hull breaches to warrant grounding her until she could be repaired on the surface of Endor. Battered though she was, the _Falcon_ could fly again with a little care.

Lando made the call to his stockyard and got the parts moving. Only then did he stop to consider his own situation. For the first time in a while he was out of transportation. On Bespin he had a few ships at his disposal, but the Empire had seized them after Cloud City had been evacuated. That had not bothered him then because he had the _Falcon_. After Han had been rescued, he had other things to do so he allowed Lando keep using her until just now.

With a start of surprise, Lando now discovered he had not given the matter of eventually losing the _Falcon_ any thought at all. Somehow she felt so much like home, that he never considered leaving. It was the effect she had on everyone. Han would certainly sympathize, but he would still keep her for himself. Her familiar touch and often-jumbled interior always seemed a welcome space to be even if the space through which it traveled was not. Even Lando's refined tastes remained silent in what he would otherwise call a rather squalid existence.

He needed a ship and fast. The Alliance would probably allow him to use a shuttle for a while, but he could not command a fighter group from an ungainly craft of that nature. A starfighter did not appeal to him either, that would lack the necessary communications gear and defensive abilities that the _Falcon _possessed. He could lead a fighter group from another fighter, but not the immensely more complex role of leading a combined force of multiple groups, cruisers, and assault ships. Besides that, he was not as good a pilot as most Alliance pilots. He needed another ship like the _Falcon_ to continue on in his role of General of the Alliance forces.

Lando called a friend on Mon Cal who was a dealer in star ships. After a jubilant greeting from his friend and several congratulatory exchanges for destroying the _Death Star_ with the Emperor in it, they got down to business.

"Can't you cut me a deal, Grhommy?" Lando asked.

The image on the other end of the line displayed a Mon Calamari in dapper clothes and in good spirits. After consulting a pad of data containing his own financial status, Grhommy Beck told Calrissian, "I can sell you anything on the lot at my cost." That was all the deal he would get. Even if the Emperor was dead, he had to provide for his family. The coming days would reveal who controlled the galaxy, but business would continue. The Mon Calamari could expect a boon of sorts, but he could also expect change to be a bit slow in the making. His clients depended on his sound business, and his family depended on his financial sensibilities. Deals of the nature Calrissian was expecting, would take food off his table so slim was his margin of profit.

Beck had built a reputation on dealing only in the most reliable ships that were easily defensible. When he had started his business the second criteria had not even been an issue. But when his customers and friends started being stopped and seized by pirates in deep space, he began to examine speed and defensive armament in detail. When it became clear to him that the Empire would not stop the growing tide of criminal influence, he mandated that all of his clients left in a ship that could return them to buy another. Good business sense that had earned him a great many friends and no enemies.

Calrissian considered that with much longing, but he sensed a deal lurking within the confines of Grhommy's strained finances. "What do you have that could replace the _Millennium Falcon_?"

Grhommy rolled his eyes in a distinctly Mon Calamari gesture of anticipation. This could be a good exchange yet. "A light freighter of Corellian manufacture?" Grhommy asked in the hopes that Calrissian would take a few heaps off his lot.

"Something of that kind, but I just can't tell you without knowing what you have," Lando answered.

"I have an YT-2000 light freighter you can have for five thousand," Grhommy offered. A picture of the ship replaced his image on Lando's holocom. It bore a strong family resemblance to the _Millennium Falcon_ and all other YT-1300's. The main body was a round dish with an oblong, horizontal drive engine in the rear. Forward of the body extended two utility mandibles to house the ships systems and to make more room in the cargo area. But instead of the side-mounted cockpit, one extended between the mandibles. "It will perform in the same arena as Solo's ship with a few differences. She lacks the dual shield generators and the quad cannons, but I have the parts for those in the shop so I can send them with it." The image shifted to a view of the interior, which was barren and gutted. "I'm afraid her former owner had a short run to make on a regular schedule. She has no amenities outside the cockpit beyond the basics, and her hyperdrive is pretty well played out. If you still have the people to fix her up, I'd say she would serve you better than she would now appear."

Lando flinched at such a foreboding prospect. "Are you sure that's all you have for me?" Normally Beck didn't parade the hulks past him.

Grhommy sounded not in the least bit troubled by the General's misgivings. "I just got her last week, Calrissian, I haven't had enough time to fully outfit her. Let me assure you she can perform as advertised, but I must tell you what I myself would do to it."

Lando was satisfied that he was not being ripped off, but options were something he loathed to close, "What else do you have in YT?" he asked.

The picture shifted to a split display of one YT-1300 and one YT-2400. Grhommy explained: "The 1300 just got here. Plush interior, good engine, in great structural shape, but I can't tell you about it in too much detail. The previous owner has sold me stuff before and I can tell you it's lead an easy life, but defensively, it needs a complete upgrade. If you want it, I would like to keep it for a few weeks to complete the upgrade at the cost of the parts."

Lando smiled. Forever a fair player, Grhommy always tailored the deal to the client's needs. It helped out a great deal that the Mon Calamari was perceptive to Lando's rather extreme requirements. "You just sold me my next fleet of ships, Beck," he chuckled, "But I'm afraid I don't have that kind of time. Perhaps later I can get this one. But what about the 2400?"

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If there ever was anything to be written in stone about these jabbering little creatures, Daub reflected, it should be their unfailing good humor. He wasn't sure how far he had carried Kabayoth with these Ewoks, but they had tirelessly held up their end of the litter. Although it took four of them to hold up their end to his singular effort, they rotated the bearers without breaking stride. So smooth was their switch off that he did not notice until the resting team of Ewoks bounded past him like playful children. He was escorted now by about two dozen of the tribe, and every last one had unbounded reserves of energy for play. They would roll down hills, cartwheel down the trail, and no fewer than five at a time was swinging from vine to vine.

A latecomer to the group was an exceedingly small female. Perhaps only sixty centimeters tall, she was filled with a store of energy that Daub could only gape at in wide-eyed envy. She ran around Daub and the litter as they walked until she fell over dizzy. When she recovered a moment later, she jumped onto Kabayoth and jabbered on incoherently at the Wookee until she seemed satisfied she had made whatever point she had labored to make. She then directed Kabayoth to lower her to the ground. No sooner had her paws touched the path than she sprinted for the trees.

Daub thought briefly that she had run off home, but a slight thump on his back and a familiar screech of delight told him that she had landed on him. Tiny claws gripped the cloth of his prison tunic as she climbed up onto his shoulders. She wailed in triumph then gently ran her claws through his hair. She was light and Daub did not mind her riding him so long as she didn't upset his balance.

The little Ewok's father watched her anxiously and brandished his spear discreetly at Daub. Daub, for his part, smiled and tried his best to convey to the father his benign intentions.

The Ewok then noticed the pockets in the front of his shirt. At first Daub thought she had fallen off him, but she slipped quickly down the front of him and stood up with her feet planted in his pockets. "Becka!" She proclaimed pounding her chest. When Daub tried to look around her at the trail she did it again.

She had done this fully three times before Kabayoth revealed, That's her name, Daub.

Daub at once felt quite dense and rolled his eyes. "I know I'm smarter than this," he murmured. "Daub," he offered her. When she did not register what she had told him he repeated it again.

"EEEEE, Daub," she said and jabbered something else to her father. An explosion of laughter from all the Ewoks told Daub that even she did not consider him a threat. With her endorsement all the spears, axes, and stone knives vanished and the laughter continued ripple through the ranks.

Becka's influence was proven to be greater yet when she pointed over Daub's shoulder at the litter and chirped out some kind of question. "Kabayoth," he answered. No sooner than he had the word out of his mouth than she barreled over his head and jumped onto the litter.

Wookees are known for their tempers, but it is seldom appreciated that they are quite dignified at all other times. As best as they can, they strive to make their shaggy, massive forms straight of back and flowing in motion. So it was a great surprise to Daub and Kabayoth that when Becka landed on the Wookee's chest his enormous bulk jumped up in the air and a very undignified squeak erupted from Kabayoth.

Becka was delighted anew with the ride and rocked herself furiously atop Kabayoth in an effort to make him buck again. When he remained still she rushed back to her perch on Daub's shoulders. The rest of the way she talked to Daub and Kabayoth as though they understood her. Daub had to admit that she made him forget his aches and pains, and he felt very content to have her riding on him.

They continued on for half the day through the woods in this way. Finally the trees parted, and a large clearing appeared. To Daub's relief, Rebel ships were sitting idle surrounded by their crews. Here and there celebrating Ewoks danced and jabbered among the Rebels. Beyond the clearing sat a great heap of smoldering technology that had once been the Imperial shield generator.

Becka sat atop his shoulders in unaccustomed silence. For a long time, Daub's band of Ewoks stood stalk still, and took in the sheer scale of what had happened the previous day. They had been too distant to join the battle in time. Their Chief had wanted to take to the fighting, but by the time news reached him, the Evil Moon growing in the sky shattered into shooting stars. Even those Ewoks who engaged in the battle would never know the magnitude of what they had done.

Becka said something reverent in Daub's ear. "This will all fade back into the land again," Daub assured her. Language barrier not withstanding his words had the desired affect, and he felt her relax a bit on his shoulders.

After being joined by further Ewoks, they were escorted down into the clearing and lead to where a golden protocol droid conversed patiently with the elders of the local tribe. The Droid became quite alarmed when he saw the litter bearing Kabayoth, "Goodness!" he exclaimed in a very human frenzy of worry. "Where in heavens did you come from?"

Daub would have answered, but his escort of Ewoks erupted into a din of chatter. The droid's self-possessed form bent to hear their words and chattered back at them when he could. Later Daub would come to realize that the droid had followed every last word spoken without the need to interrupt any of the tales being told. He was never to know how C-3PO could multitask in such an efficient manner, and he never met another droid who could do the same.

When the Ewoks finally quieted their tales, the droid straightened and made his introduction. "I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations. Your escort informs me that you crashed near their village. They wish to convey you to our custody since they believe that you belong to us." The droid managed to sound embarrassed when he told them, "They tell me that Lady Becka will release you from the spell she put on you when Master Chewbacca arrives."

Spell? Kabayoth asked with no small amount of incredulity.

"What kind of spell?" Daub added.

The droid shook his head as if confusion clouded his programming. "Yes, sir. Your escorts tell me that their tribal charm witch has enacted a powerful spell to subdue you."

Daub was not a superstitious man, but he found himself taking a quick stock of himself. Nothing seemed amiss. In fact he felt quite well. Not so much as a sore muscle could he claim to trouble him. So whatever it was that the Ewoks spoke of, its effects were marginal if at all there.

The droid sent an Ewok running further into the Rebel camp and over a far ridge, and another towards a group of Ewoks celebrating around the burned out carcass of an Imperial AT-ST. "I have sent for someone to care for you and your companion, sir. If you will forgive the intrusion, we still have security to consider."

You mean you have sent for an armed escort, Kabayoth growled.

C-3PO for his part managed to look embarrassed as well as an immobile face could. "I must apologize, sir, but we have already captured several Imperial survivors this morning." His tone dropped suddenly into a most tender variety of regret as he added, "Most elected to fight on rather than surrender."

Kabayoth shook his head wearily, I understand. He raised himself up onto his elbows. My partner and I helped a crew of Wookees escape the Death Star. Have they found their way here yet?

"Yes they have," the Droid replied. "They tell us about half made it to the surface."

C-3PO could have told them more, but at that moment the shaggy brown head of Chewbacca appeared out of the trees escorted by the first Ewok runner. Chewbacca immediately bellowed into a greeting for Kabayoth. No sooner had he done so than Becka leapt from Daub's shoulders and landed again on Kabayoth's litter. She raised her tiny paws; claws extended, bared her teeth and growled defensively.

So sudden was her action that Chewbacca actually hesitated in mid stride. Then he and Kabayoth began to laugh in great, deep woofs.

It is all right, small one, Kabayoth soothed, as his gusts of laughter would allow. He merely wishes to greet a brother warmly.

Becka either did not understand or had no wish to release her self-imposed charge. She stood defiantly on Kabayoth's chest, daring Chewbacca to challenge her.

Chewbacca stepped within reach of her tiny paws and crouched beside the litter. While his gaze was not yet at Becka's level, it was not at his usual imposing height. He made a few soft growls and spread his paws in submission to show his respect. It seemed almost comic to see what Jaba the Hutt had termed the "_Mighty Chewbacca_" humbled by a being far less sophisticated, far younger, and less than one quarter his own body weight. But Becka demanded and got everyone's submission in her presence.

Satisfied that she had made her point, Becka did something a bit unusual. After lowering her paws, she leaned over to face Kabayoth, nibbled his nose and leapt onto Daub's shoulders and nibbled his nose. This completed she leapt to the ground and spat on the ground between Daub's feet. She then walked over to Chewbacca clasped his bowcaster bandolier. She jabbered something to him that he didn't understand, and walked over to her father standing guard a discreet distance away.

The strange ceremony held everyone's puzzled attention for the duration. So surprising was her little display, in fact, that every eye followed her over the rise without a word exchanged.

Surprised silence thundered among those gathered around the litter until Chewbacca growled a question at C-3PO. "She told your fortune, Chewbacca," the droid answered.

Impatient with the droid as always, Chewbacca growled a very gruff question 3PO's way.

"She told you that you would never again live in your own home. Your debts of life are well and paid, but you belong to a rebuilding family left over from a misguided father and a broken home," C-3PO answered.

Chewbacca took stock of what he was told, and then refocused on Kabayoth and Daub without the slightest lingering care. For a few moments the two Wookees growled and roared about their latest experiences and caught up with each other. Kabayoth told Daub that Chewbacca and himself were working together while Chewbacca was a slave of the Empire. Chewbacca explained to Daub that he had killed one of Kabayoth's former owners since his own escape. Kabayoth then told Daub who had bought him after that, and how he had come to work on the second _Death Star_. Chewbacca then told Daub about …

And so it went. Wookee custom held that any conversation held amongst friends after an extended absence from home be held with at least three souls present. The two most familiar of friends telling the third party the story so as to allow the news to reach home by any means possible. Slavery had enforced this custom upon their kind, an ongoing oral history so as to tell of those who had been taken from home without warning or even explanation. When the news reached Kashyyyk the families of the lost and scattered would record what they heard in the event that the oral history may be preserved. To Daub it was a custom of the saddest origins, but of the pleasantest consequences. It allowed someone such as himself a peek at what this race of shaggy beings was really made of, and what would have surprised his Imperial superiors, all those years ago, was how resilient the Wookees were. Even isolated from each other for years at a stretch, they would not allow something so trivial as an Empire crush their spirit. But what touched him the most was his inclusion to this most sacred of customs. For, in effect, he was being made a member of, not one, but two Wookee families just by listening to two long lost friends explain how they had come to get here. At least that was what Kabayoth told him. Daub figured himself either foolish enough or kind enough to believe him.

Daub could find comfort that he was included among the families of Kashyyyk. He would proudly declare his gratitude for what was genuine acceptance among united, caring communities. His own family had ostracized him for the heinous crime of trying to correct the gravest of errors he had himself made. The truth of his own family could hardly match the Wookee's example. His brother was a Captain of an _Imperial_ class Star Destroyer, and by all accounts he was good at his job. That same brother had imprisoned him on that ship for almost two years. Daub's two sons now lived in their uncle Rook's home along with their mother whom Rook had married. Daub's father was a patrician to the Empire, and had not spoken to him in greater than fifteen years despite Daub's repeated efforts. And at last there was Mystery, loyal only to the next contract.

Daub could not find hate enough to condemn them though. His brother was an Imperial by conviction rather than by any real loyalty to Palpatine. His former wife would adore Rook for his position and social standing. He reasoned that he never understood her anyway, and Rook always had understood people better than he had. He wondered what his sons were told about him often enough, but, if they were any bit like their father, they would try to find out for themselves what he really was like. His father Mithras had been a patrician in the Old Republic, and he had retained both his standing and his wealth during the turbulent years of Palpatine's ascension to power. Mithras was a survivor of uncanny instinct who saw and encouraged potential in his children early on so that his family might continue to survive. The old man probably was astounded to see it all unravel so easily. Mystery, his younger sister, had always been the rebellious one of his father's children; consequently, no one in the family was much surprised by her occupation in the bounty-hunter trade. And everyone could take comfort in the fact that she was an outstanding hunter. Daub was proud of her even though she would probably be after him as soon as Rook discovered he was alive.

After a few moments of storytelling, and catching up Chewbacca motioned for Daub to take up the other end of the litter again he explained that the _Millennium Falcon_ would take them to the medical frigate as soon as it could be flown. Chewbacca had already promised the other Wookees Daub and Kabayoth had freed first rights to the ride after the most seriously injured.

It was when Daub stooped to take up the litter again that he noticed how bone tired he was. His shoulders ached, his legs were watery with fatigue, thirst raged in is throat, and he sank to the ground feeling worse by the second. By the time he reached his knees he became aware that his hands were curled into throbbing claws he could not will open. The weight of all the kilometers he had carried Kabayoth through the forest arrived as though it had only now found its way to him along the trails. He also became aware that he had not slept in two or three days. While his mind struggled to cope with the blows his body only now was reporting, it too began to register a headache caused by a badly jarred back. The only bright spot was the spear wound in his leg only itched a bit instead of the raging flames of pain Daub expected after this avalanche of agony.

Kabayoth would have asked Daub what was wrong if not for the sudden onset of pain in his broken leg. A frantic itching bloomed like a lit fire in the center of his limb without warning. The Wookee had time enough to understand that it was Becka's absence that had caused this before a massive fever swept over him and took his mind into delirium. Now that she was gone, she could no longer keep the infection away from the compound fracture. Nor could she distract Kabayoth and Daub's minds from the debilitating pain from the previous day. Kabayoth managed to growl out her name before he convulsed in alternating flashes of intense heat and jarring chills rendered him incoherent.

For a moment Chewbacca only stood there wondering what had happened to these two. The man, Daub, had stooped to pick up the litter, and then appeared to stall to catch his breath. But as he caught more of his wind, he slowly sank to the ground. Simultaneously, Kabayoth shuddered and crooned out the name of that little Ewok that had faced him down. Chewbacca had tried to ask what he wanted from her, but Kabayoth only curled up into a tight ball and panted as after a long run. Chewbacca then asked Daub what was wrong, but he could barely summon the strength to moan out for water.

"Oh, my!" 3PO gasped. "Master Chewbacca, what happened to them?" Chewbacca's reply only puzzled the droid even more. "But what does Mistress Becka have to do with this?" he asked. When the Wookee gave a quick swat to the droid's head though, 3PO started chattering at the assembled Ewoks that always followed him now.

Chewbacca roared out towards the humans working on the rebel ships in the clearing loud enough for one to run over to ask what was going on. Since he could not understand what Chewbacca said, C-3PO had to interpret.

"I'm terribly sorry! But Master Chewbacca needs a medical team here immediately for these two beings," 3PO motioned at the two mounds of agonized flesh before them. The man took off in time to see a small Ewok running pell-mell towards the droid.

Becka took careful stock of her former charge when she arrived. She managed to look a bit confused, but Chewbacca could not tell what about precisely. He stooped to her level again to try and convey his own concern as best he could. Even with their similar bodies and culture, it was clear that Ewoks had only the most rudimentary understanding of what he said. In that way, though, they were like most humans, so having lived his life struggling to be understood, he was good at making a point. He growled encouragement and his concern for the two stricken beings she had kept from harm. He hoped she could help again, and it was not coincidence that Kabayoth had called her.

Becka chattered out something dismissive as though the Wookee should not worry so much. She tapped his knee with one of her tiny claws to emphasize her point and went to work. Seeing that Kabayoth was clearly in the worse shape of the two, she padded over to his side. She ran her paw over his head a number of times in long affectionate strokes. With each pass of her paw the spasms grew weaker until Kabayoth lay still. She them heaved his body out flat one limb at a time. When she got to his splinted leg, she took no particular care with it other than straightening it out comfortably. When Chewbacca tried to help she scolded him off to his amazement.

With Kabayoth now lying still and relaxed, she administered a pressure with her full body weight to his chest with both paws, and a final, gentle pressure to the bridge of his nose with a single finger. She looked at Chewbacca and raised a finger to her mouth. "Sssshhh," she ordered. He could hardly object, so effective was her treatment.

When she approached Daub her demeanor changed: from almost motherly concern, to the untroubled tones of a scolding, but not unkind, nurse. She rolled him over without care and began to brush off the dirt and grit from his body. She slapped his face as one might do to awaken a dozing man. She then sat him up by pulling on his arms making quite a show of it as she did so. She grunted and growled between clenched teeth; scolding him the whole time, it would appear, for his laziness. With him in a sitting position, she walked around to his back and began furiously punching, swatting, and chopping with her fists until Daub stood. Chewbacca's fine ears could hear the pops and crackles of Daub's spine, so intense was Becka's assault.

Daub was now revived, but he reeled on his feet and could not focus on anything before him. Becka scratched at his knee so that he would stoop to see her. When she was satisfied that she had his full attention, she squeezed his spear wound while she held onto his head by the hair.

Daub's eyes flew open in shock and pain. He tried to reel away, but Becka held him still for one moment more. Then she released her grip on his leg but not his hair. With a twinkle in her eye, she drew his attention to Kabayoth's sleeping form, "SSSHHH!" she ordered. She then released her grip on his hair and hugged his uninjured leg.

After a few jabbered words C-3PO translated, "She says: that you will let master Kabayoth sleep until two days from now. She also demands that you must leave this place before the spirits of the trees crush you." The golden droid asked Becka something then continued, "Quite frankly, sir, I don't know what she's talking about. It must be a tribal superstition."

Daub shrugged. "Chewbacca," he said, "let's get Kabayoth back home."

Chewbacca growled agreement.

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Lando looked over the YT-2400 with interest. Dash Rendar's _Outrider_ was of this model and it had impressed him to no end.

Grhommy Beck rolled his eyes again as a smile creased his features. "One of the best I have. Fully outfitted, reconditioned, and rebuilt she's the swiftest ship on the lot."

"Then why don't you have a buyer?" Lando asked.

"She's pricey. The list price for anyone else would be seventy-four thousand and all up front. But for you, I'll sell her at cost." Beck was shifting gears into sales mode. Lando could almost hear the percentages tick off in the Mon Calimari's head.

"What does that come to?" Lando said.

"With dorsal and ventral Taim & Bak 81A duplex laser turrets Fabritech AN-9 sensor package, and a fully rebuilt hyperdrive that comes to…" Beck trailed off as he made the calculation, "… Forty-five point six thousand."

Lando gaped. The sum of all the _Falcon's_ parts would not approach even half this fee. "How did you get beyond generational parts?"

Beck did not answer. Instead he offered, "If you buy her at list cost I will throw in the other two fully reconditioned for free."

Lando caught himself before he exploded in profanity. "Let me think about it for a day alright, Grhommy?"

Beck waved a dismissive hand, "Take your time. None of these ships are moving out of here anytime soon." With a friendly wave he signed off.

"General," a voice said behind him.

Lando turned to see an Alliance commando standing before him. "Yes?" he answered.

The camouflaged figure looked behind him towards a man in Imperial prison coveralls. "This man just came out of the forest with a tribe of Ewoks and a Wookee. He claims to be Daub Lasck." The man looked back to Lando, "Isn't he dead, sir? Chewbacca claims this to be him, but I thought he was killed at Hoth."

Lando knew Lasck only by reputation so he could only say, "If Chewi says this is Lasck, then there's no doubt about it."

Satisfied the commando turned and clipped a set of manacles on Daub's wrists.

Before he could lead Lasck away Lando erupted, "Hold on!" he leapt up to grip the commando's shoulder, "what are you doing?"

The commando turned to Lando with an incredulous stare. "I'm from Alderaan, General, and this man is on the most wanted list just two steps below Bevel Lemelisk."

Lando was aware of this, but he knew there was more to Lasck than that. "He also built Eco base on Hoth as I recall. It would seem that his fate has been tied to us for a couple of years."

The man was adamant, "The Alderaani council never got the chance to take this man to trial. My duty is to see that he meets the courts."

Lando, aware of Daub's talents, was reluctant to throw all that away at a time when he could make use of them. "I'll take custody of the man then," he offered. "Besides, as a flag officer, I have jurisdiction until he can be released to the council." It was flimsy. Han actually held jurisdiction on Endor itself since this man was under his command.

The commando conceded the point. "I suppose so, sir. Do you mind if I inform General Solo and Princess Leia that you have Lasck in your custody?"

Lando smiled broadly, "I insist you do that very thing, uh…" he trailed off looking over the man's uniform for some kind of insignia. "I'm sorry, but you never introduced yourself."

"Caleb, sir, Sergeant Thias Caleb of Alderaan," the man replied proudly executing a perfect formal bow of the Alderaani House of Commons.

"Very well Sergeant Caleb, see to it the General and the Princess are appraised of the situation."

The man walked away leaving Daub standing before Calrissian.

Lando looked the man over and asked, "Just where have you been?"

"Prison," Daub said in his booming voice. "My brother Rook was ordered to look after me in his own brig until recently."

Lando said in a joking voice, "I guess they had you working on this _Death Star _just recently."

"Yes."

Alarmed Lando said, "You didn't work on the turbolaser did you?"

"Yes."

"The hyperdrive?"

"Yes."

"The targeting computer?"

"Yes."

"The nav systems?"

Daub rolled his eyes impatiently. "Will it save time if I told you I made this one operational?"

Lando shook his head. "Ackbar will want blood for this."

Daub stared back at Lando, "I can hardly be tried for wanting to live."

"It's not that simple," Lando said. "Your desire to survive just cost the Alliance twenty percent of its forces."

Daub was unmoved. "If they had to do without me, they would have. I may be the best they once had (let me tell you that is by no means difficult), but over the years I trained legions of specialists who could have and would have be brought here. They would have made your job impossible. Instead they had me on hand to do everything. Moff Jerjerrod himself would have preferred to have those legions of specialists rather than just little old me. I can only do so much at a time, but I did do them."

Lando was angry, "If you think what we just did was easy…"

Daub cut him off, "You see that deflector generator over there?" he motioned to the smoldering remains on the ridge. "A fully functional unit was aboard the station yesterday to be used as a backup. The Emperor thought it more important to have the superlaser have a higher rate of fire rather than waste labor on installing the unit into the power grid and jeopardize a power drain. If those specialists were available, the labor shortage would silence such arguments."

Lando saw Daub's reasoning, but had to admit it was shaky. "So just by being there and working full tilt, you slowed the project just enough for us to succeed."

Daub nodded. "Besides," he added, "do you really think the station could be made indestructible? Something so large and so dangerous can only be regarded as a target."

Lando was less sure than Lasck of that point, but he saw no reason to continue with the argument. "I suppose you can defend our actions to higher authorities."

"Or make restitution," Daub replied.

"I suppose," he allowed. Changing the subject Lando turned back to his dilemma with Beck, "Can you help me out here? I'm not sure these ships are worth the expense. I only need one of them, but a package deal of the three seems very tempting."

Daub considered the data Calrissian presented for a moment. "Buy 'em," he said.

Lando was unconvinced, "This kind of cash is not easy to come by."

"For a layout of seventy odd thousand you will receive triple the value of those freighters if sold individually. In addition, I can upgrade all those hulks into sprinters that would shame the best around." Daub said this with absolute confidence.

"Even the _Millennium Falcon_?" Lando asked.

Daub nodded.

"Alright," Lando said. "Speaking of the _Falcon_, I don't suppose you would work on her right now would you?" He was both anxious to get the ship repaired and to see the engineer in action.

"I'm more interested in a bed right now," Daub replied.

"We're in the process of moving off world right now," Lando told him. "All our efforts are geared towards getting all our assets back to the fleet. In fact, we're short of shuttles right now. The _Defiance_ had the larger part of our spares and it did not survive the battle yesterday."

"My wookee friend is heading to the medical frigate; I'll just stay with him."

"He's at the end of a very long list, Daub. He won't be getting up there for a few days."

This revelation had the desired effect on Lasck, Lando was gratified to see. His shoulders slumped and he breathed a resigned sigh. "Where is it?" Daub asked.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The _Millennium Falcon_ nested on a small bluff overlooking the battlefield. Battered, scarred, and tired though she was, she nonetheless made a grand sight to see. One could almost imagine a large bird of prey perched over a field of carnage. Lando had chosen the spot for no other reason than its size since the trees allowed only the smallest of clearings. Come daylight, he marveled at the view only to realize how close to dumping the ship off a twenty meter drop he had come.

Daub ignored the view and went right to work. With a confidence born of hard experience, he marched inside, found a tool kit and began jettisoning all the broken parts of the ship. Indeed the ship appeared to molt as the durasteel and fibertanium plates crashed to the ground. Without asking or appearing to examine the damage he shed hull plates, systems modules, fairings, hatch covers and assemblies by the ton.

Lando was at once alarmed. "Stop, we'll never get her back together for months if you don't stop right now!"

Daub looked back at Lando with undisguised impatience. "Would it help if I explained what I'm doing? I am all for getting this heap into the air and to my bed in orbit above. I will therefore waste no time in doing so."

"Perhaps you should explain," Lando allowed.

Daub turned and began to work again. "This hull plating has sheared off the extrusion beneath the surface. It must be replaced or repaired before takeoff or it will no longer bear the mass of this quarter." The part fell to the ground. "This hatch is fused shut by laser fire. This makes the metal very brittle and does not accept the thermodynamic curve for space." The hatch fell to the ground followed shortly by the hatch mounts. "This canopy has suffered a massive impact. Bringing it down to the surface has caused cracking in the plaz that will be fatal before the ship reaches the exosphere." The canopy shattered to the ground.

After about ten minutes of this, Solo sprinted onto the bluff. Horrified, he sank to the ground. Gaping openmouthed at the shedding remains of his ship, Lando casually strolled up. "I thought I might get things moving."

"I thought I told you that Chewi and I would get this fixed," Han wailed just as Chewbacca strolled up the path.

Chewbacca roared a war cry in protest. Unslinging his bowcaster, he was about to charge the ship and disembowel whoever was responsible when Daub poked his head out of the cockpit. The full throated roar chopped itself off into an inquisitive hoot. Lando began to bellow out laughing at the sound. Oblivious to the laughter Chewbacca roared a question to Daub.

"I'll get this done if you have the parts," Daub answered the wookee.

Chewbacca roared again.

Daub considered this for a moment then suggested, "Up in orbit are the remains of four workshops I had in the _Death Star_. Get me one of those, and I can fabricate a new ship from scratch before the end of the day." His head disappeared into the ship. A moment later, he was walking on the dorsal plates towards the drive. Stooping to examine something, he sniffed in disgust.

"Solo," he said. They had met briefly on Hoth. "You didn't listen to me when I told you about those line patches did you?"

Angrily Han came to his feet. "That engine works just fine!"

Daub shook his head. "You've patched the coolant and feed lines so many times that they have almost swelled shut."

"It still runs!" Han replied defensibly.

"You have to be running at five times red line for dynamic pressure," Daub said.

"It's the fastest ship in the Galaxy. It has to run a little hot just to get around," Han protested.

"Not if you replace rather than patch the feed lines," Daub countered.

"Forgive me if I can't get those parts while I'm being shot at!" Han said.

Daub nodded. "I can forgive you, Han, but the _Falcon_…" he made a deft motion the entire drive crashed to the ground. He shrugged and moved on to another part of the ship to jettison more broken parts.

Leia appeared next to investigate what the racket was about. She laughed when she saw what had happened to the ship. She was still laughing hard when Daub walked over to throw off the dorsal turret seat ripped from inside.

"Hello, Princess," he said casually.

The effect on Leia was immediate and severe. Her laughing stopped short in her throat, and her teeth came together with a click. "You!" she hissed. She drew her blaster in a blur and fired before anyone had a fair chance to react.

Daub casually kicked a hull plate up and the blaster bolt bounced harmlessly away. "I'll need to fix that now," he growled.

"You belong in prison or executed for what you did to Alderaan!" Leia shouted.

Daub sighed with impatience. "So quit shooting at me so I can make it back to my cell. I haven't slept for three days, Princess, so pardon my manners, but you're being positively boorish."

He continued to roam about the ship until he finally dropped the entrance ramp and jumped down to the ground. "Where are those parts, Lando?"

Lando could only gape at what Lasck had done so casually in under an hour. Sunlight could be seen filtering to the ground underneath the _Falcon_. One of the forward mandibles lay on the ground in addition to countless discarded parts. "I'm sure they will be here today. I ordered them from Mon Cal shortly before you showed up."

Daub rolled his eyes, "Not Sullust?"

"They didn't have everything I wanted," Lando replied.

"Let me have a crack at it," Daub said.

A few hours later a shipment of parts came from Sullust a full day before the Mon Calamari shipment even left the planet. With astonishing speed the _Falcon's _form took shape again. Daub, for all his many faults, knew what he was doing. In fact it went so well that Han had to ask how Daub knew what to do. Daub's reply was: "The _Falcon_ knows. Why don't you listen?"

The last thing to go aboard was the main drive. In the intervening hours, Daub had replaced all the drive and coolant lines, but not reattached the massive structure. Without heavy lift devices of any sort, Han was anxious to see how Daub intended to get the drive back in place.

"So what now, Lasck?" Han asked as he mulled the problem over.

Daub shrugged, walked up the boarding ramp, and raised it.

With another massive crash to the ground, the rear landing skids retracted into the ship while the front ones remained extended. The _Falcon_ now sat with her nose in the air and her hindquarters in the dirt like a resting quadruped. Daub then climbed out of the top hatch and slid down her back. Quickly he reattached the drive, went back inside, and lowered the rear skids again. When he lowered the boarding ramp he marched down it and said, "Get Kabayoth, he needs to get to the medical frigate."


	5. Seva's Scars

Commander Seva Kect lounged in a chair next to the veiwport of the Mon Calamari cruiser _Independence_ swaying slowly as though rocked by gentle waves of the sea. But this was space not the ocean. The command chairs of all Mon Calamari ships are mounted on moving arms that are controlled by slight motions of the arms and wrists so as to leave the hands free to work. Typically humans found the chairs difficult to master and left their use to the Mon Calamari crews, but there she sat. With her back to the bridge and facing space, the chair lazily traced around the veiwport in slow cadence to the motion of the ship. The crew did not trouble her for her temper had already been made legend. No matter, the crew was exhausted by the previous day, and all knew their jobs well enough to function without disturbing her. It was bad enough to have a human in charge of a Mon Calamari ship, they reasoned, no sense in provoking behavior already discovered to be crude.

Seva, for her part, did not care weather they liked her or not. So long as they performed their duties as a crew and not a mob, she was content to command them. She knew how much they resented her, and she knew the reasons why she made them uneasy. Mon Calamari had a justified reputation for excellence in space fairing. She was an unwelcome interloper at the top of their distinguished society who had gotten there over the bodies of her predecessors. The last in line was not yet cold. But it could not be helped. No other qualified Captain could be spared.

In fact she had only been aboard for three weeks. At the time, she regarded her assignment aboard the _Independence_ as a body blow to her ambitions, the last effort to keep her form commanding her own ship. Just recently she had been next in line to command the light Mon Calamari cruiser _Intrepid_, but while the Quarren Captain of the _Intrepid_ moved on to command the Heavy Mon Calamari Cruiser _Defiance_, she had been reassigned as the second officer of the _Independence._ Technically this was a move up the chain of command, third in command of the flagship of the Alliance Fleet, but she knew better.

Seva had forged her command style on the broken back of her frustrations and it had made her cynical to the best intended gesture. Years ago, during her brief tenure with Kuat Drive Yards, she had risen to superintendent of flight testing, only to find her credibility negated because she wasn't a native of the Kuat system. More damning was her commoner's heritage, but she might have remedied that by marrying into a noble house of Kuat. Frustrated by the glass ceiling she had so swiftly cracked her head on, and knowing the only way she could move in KDY was either into the illicit affairs of the nobility or down, she moved on.

Later, in the Imperial Fleet, she rose to and lost the rank of Lieutenant Commander twice before the age of thirty; only to be cast back down again because she was a woman. Still not satisfied, she soldiered on in the hopes that the Empire might prove a worthy service. Alderaan dashed those hopes. The New Order, she saw, was rife with corruption while it protested justice. The Empire openly gloated over this genocidal policy of fear. Palpatine's Imperial Fleet was the mindless extension of his expansionist ambitions, and not an arm of public interest. It was a sexist, xenophobic organization bent on conquest and geared for slaughter. Seva, horrified by the full scope of what she had become a part of, left at once.

After she joined the Rebellion, she struggled to prove herself against her alien comrades. Time and again she faced the petty bigotry no one was willing to acknowledge, much less correct. The Rebel Alliance, in its early days, was a hasty and slipshod outfit. Much of its original members were aliens who were driven to desperate measures to survive, along with opportunistic characters with shady motives. She expected some prejudice to be sent her way because she was a former Imperial officer, but instead she was shocked to run headlong into a pit of racism so militant it bordered on paranoia. Time and again she plodded through these difficulties only to make enemies along the way. Frustrated to no end by this basic flaw in the Rebellion, she set about correcting it.

Her first assignment was as a fighter pilot. Under her command were twenty enlisted troops. Composed in roughly equal thirds of aliens, former criminals, and displaced refugees. Her little company did not function at all when she first took command of it. Through reshuffling the duty roster, a few quiet reassignments, and enforcing a harsh work ethic, she molded a self-destructive mob into a team. But when she had earned the respect of her company, she was promoted off the base and onto a cruiser, leaving her small but effective command behind. On the cruiser _Liberty_ she gained control of a flight of fighters, and another disunited bunch of characters. And when she had forged another crew out of another mob, she was moved to squadron on the _Defiance_. Time and again she managed to build crews out of mobs only to be promoted into another mob.

On brute ability alone, she diligently made her way up the ranks until she thought she had finally achieved her dream of commanding a starship. _Intrepid_ was not a large ship, but she was, by far, the finest she had ever seen. Smaller, faster, and more maneuverable than her larger sisters, she was the hot-rod of the fleet. With beautiful lines, heavy armament, and a single squadron of fighters, she also possessed a motivated and skilled crew. She commanded Blue Squadron aboard the _Intrepid_. The cruiser being so small could only carry a single squadron, and that left her in an enviable position. By virtue of the outfit's size, she had to manage the duties of both a Squadron leader and a first officer. The Alliance also made demands of the _Intrepid_ more suited to a Heavy Cruiser. High command seemed blithely unaware of the ship's statistics, but this Seva used to her advantage.

Large scale operations done with her small unit offered her the chance to show some real creative flair for command. Under the restrictive resources and rather expansive objectives delivered from high command, she could create an environment of achievement. She demanded and got the best out of her crews and the best support from their command. Reflecting back on it now proved to her the value of a small, active team of officers and talented, aggressive troops. _Intrepid _proved for her that it was not the number or quality of officers individually (some of her immediate subordinates were outright inept when left to their own devices) rather it was the mix of the right officers for the right people. Teams produce more than the sum of their parts. However, the Alliance High Command did not see it that way, not at all. They saw the numbers of troops and the number of officers, and they grew alarmed at the ratio. Trying to avoid the pitfalls of the Imperial model, they set about promoting whoever showed the slightest talent for administration. Seva parried this new rash of officers by keeping small teams together regardless of rank; thereby insuring that they still thought together to advance.

Then disaster struck. Pirates began to trouble ships in _Intrepid's_ sector. Using forged Alliance transponder codes and refitted X and Y-wings they would lure cargo ships close enough to cripple them with a fast attack. Afterwards, larger ships would come and "requisition" the cargos of the crippled vessels and kill or injure whoever tried to stop them. In their wake they left counterfeit Alliance vouchers that the rebellion could not repay. The pirates could pan off their credits as legitimate since they were exquisitely copied from a select few originals. Local systems enraged that the Rebellion had tuned to such brutal tactics, cut off supplies and denied access to their ports. In addition, Imperial investigators were afforded the opportunity to examine the counterfeit credits. Even though the vouchers were fake, they were accurate fakes; leading to the search and seizure of a full quarter of Alliance assets. Furthermore, the complex financial network the Alliance used was fully exposed. Banks were closed, creditors audited and arrested, sources were driven underground or arrested, and suppliers were garrisoned.

Had they been stopped in time, the pirates could have been dealt with easily. Had they been caught in time, the Alliance could have assaulted the second _Death Star_ with another squadron of capitol ships complete with fighter squadrons to support them. It was the heaviest blow the Rebellion was to receive before the Battle of Hoth.

To complicate matters, the pirates managed to ingratiate their organization to members of Imperial Counterintelligence. Posing as victims of the same "Rebel" pirates that ICI was investigating in their sector, they managed to land their organization under the protection of a newly arrived Imperial squadron of Star Destroyers.

Alliance High Command, livid with the situation and the _Intrepid_ for being unable to stop it, resolved to act on the matter at once. The _Liberty_ arrived to relieve the _Intrepid_, but got called off to anther hot spot after only hours in the sector; about long enough to deliver the _Intrepid's_ orders. According to their orders the _Intrepid_ was now detached from High Command until the _Liberty _returned, allowing Alliance Commander Seva Kect to snatch the initiative.

Seva hounded her captain to strike out and let her loose, and he heartily agreed. Captain Chalchok was a Quarren (a squid face to the rest of the crew) and he did not take kindly to his reputation being soiled. Popular rumor had it that the Quarren administrators of Mon Cal had betrayed the planet to the Imperials to curry favor with Palpatine; consequently Chalchok, despite his adamant loyalty, was already on shaky ground with his superiors. He openly admitted his people's guilt in the betrayal of Mon Cal, but he also reminded whoever would listen, that the Quarren had suffered for their misjudgment. In addition the pirates dealt a very bitter blow to Captain Chalchok. Quarren had been administrators and financial barons in the past while the Mon Calamari were the spacefarers and explorers on their mutual home world. Chalchok came from a prominent banking family, the meticulously copied vouchers had come from the _Intrepid_ herself, and he was in no temper to allow his name sullied in such a manner.

Wasting no time, Captain Chalchok and Commander Kect unleashed the _Intrepid _and Blue Squadron against the Imperial presence in the sector. With measured, calculated strikes against Imperial ships, garrisons, and convoys in unrelenting succession, they managed to panic the Imperial Admiral. Rebels seemed to be everywhere. A convoy would be attacked by a pair of fighters one moment, while a Star Destroyer would be damaged by a squadron of fighters a few moments later. Meanwhile a garrison would be leveled by a capitol ship as soon as it left to assist the convoy. No sooner than a Star Destroyer had been dispatched to investigate, then a fighter squadron would vanish on rout to protect another garrison. Then the garrison would disappear.

For three days it went like this until an additional two Star Destroyers were sent in to reinforce the "overwhelmed" Imperial force. Drawn away from another serous crisis in the outer rim, the newcomers were anxious to act upon the local problem and return to their post. But fate (or more accurately the _Intrepid_) would play a joke on the newcomers. They would see no action at all.

Unbeknownst to the reinforcements, they had drawn the _Defiance_ battle group with them. Captain Chalchok quickly conveyed the situation to Captain Miftir of the _Defiance_ and requested his assistance. _Intrepid_ and her fighters had eliminated all but four garrisons out of twenty in the sector. Imperial fighter strength was down by two thirds. Convoys were barred from entering the sector since they were too scattered to protect. And all four of the local squadron's Star Destroyers were heavily damaged. Most importantly the pirates were defending the capitol ships with their fighters and small cruisers. Here was a golden opportunity to strike a deadly blow.

Miftir was convinced. Without orders he struck with everything he had. In five rapid strikes, the _Defiance_\_ Intrepid_ battle group destroyed the pirate base and fighter strength, the remaining garrisons, and three Star Destroyers before Miftir led the Rebels away. The Imperial reinforcements were forced to escort the remaining Star Destroyer to the corporate sector for repairs. By the time they were able to return to their post in the Sullust sector, they were ordered to attend more pressing troubles near Tholatin.

To the locals it seemed a vast quiet had landed over them after one almighty loud war. When an Alliance representative appeared in the sector a few weeks later, pirate activity had completely stopped, and Imperial forces had vanished.

Captain Chalchok and Commander Kect continued to work in this fashion until just weeks before Endor. Miftir had been promoted to Admiral and Chalchok had been promoted to the much larger command aboard the _Defiance_. Between the two of them they managed to take all the credit from Seva. Had she been given the _Intrepid_ she might have been content, but she found herself reassigned again.

Ignoring her effort in keeping up the pressure on the Imperials in the recent campaign, and forsaking the heartfelt wishes of the crew; High Command took her off the _Intrepid_. She was devastated.

At long last she had a crew that worked so well, that it had managed to convince the enemy they were facing a force ten times its actual size. Her people had worked hard and had been happy to do so. Her pilots flew a merciless flight schedule, often sleeping in the cockpit, and managed to triple their already potent effective readiness. Pit crews worked in relays with complete cooperation. To everyone's surprise they emerged from the experience charged with energy, and ready to take the fight to the next level if need be. Though friction existed during periods of inactivity, action galvanized them into an energetic, almost joyful team. In addition, their spirit was contagious. The crew of the _Intrepid_ herself drew energy and drive from the example of the squadron; the crew of the _Defiance_ took courage from the _Intrepid_ and so on.

Having built so fine a crew from scratch and now ordered to leave it was very bitter blow to Seva. She indulged in a little self-pity and not a little resentment over the next few weeks as she settled into her duties aboard the _Independence._

_Independence_ functioned more like an embassy than a warship. The crew was disjointed and compartmentalized. Those separate departments worked well enough separately, but many did not work together at all. The ship was top heavy with officers. In an attempt to make all these separate cogs work in the larger machine, many officers spent their entire day in "liaison" functions. Coordinating, informing, briefing, and maintaining information floe to wherever it was needed, she immediately hated every bit of it. It took a conference to assign her quarters, and four more to define her duties aboard.

Worst of all: no flying. The whole purpose of her leaving home originally was to fly; command was just something she happened to be good at. Seva could, but didn't, boast of being the best pilot who had ever lived. She was not humble, merely pragmatic; bragging was poor form to show subordinates or colleagues. Her skill came from natural abilities six generations in the making and hard experience. She distained those who trusted upon luck or bravery to fly and survive and instead insisted on hard, challenging experience and technique. Others insisted that she was far too clinical and premeditated in her approach, insisting that the essential quality of instinct did not flourish in trained minds. Her success as a pilot and as a commander silenced all critics.

Seva had another resource to draw upon though she never discussed it. She was Force sensitive. Her discretion came from her home and elders including one former Jedi Master. "Do not involve us in the Great Schism, darling Seva," Aing-Tii Senior Mael Dresk warned her. "The bitterest history taught us not to interfere with the Jedi or Sith. My own past confirms how pointless it would be for us to settle things." Allowed to travel about the larger Galaxy beyond her home world of Exocron by her family and the Aing-Tii Elders, she discovered that the Jedi had been exterminated years before her arrival at Kuat. In addition, there appeared to be little to be seen of the Sith. With the exception of one shady aristocrat in Palpatine's court, no one claimed to understand what a Sith was beyond legend and rumor. Myth and heroes were gone replaced by reason and corruption. Seva knew her meager abilities had to be kept private in order to function in this faithless Galaxy.

If only she could…

"Captain Kect?"

Seva awakened from her doze. Though she did not start or jump, she did not straighten either. Her eyes opened and she turned the chair around to face the voice. Her slumped, still posture and unanimated voice made no secret of her fatigue, "Yes, Commander?"

"The last of the shuttles have landed, sir," the Mon Calamari duty officer informed her. "They have some prisoners you need to sign for," he told her in a grumbled afterthought. He then brightened a bit to inform her, "We also have flight tasking you should see."

Seva sat motionless for so long the Commander feared she had dozed off again with her eyes open. Like a doll in the trash she lay boneless in the hollow of her command chair, expression fixed, limbs akimbo. "Sign for the prisoners?" she asked at last.

"Yes, sir, you need to assign security tasking and transfers if need be."

"Give me the list," she mumbled. She took the proffered data pad and settled again into the chair with a great, heaving sigh of resignation. Fortunately only two names were on the list. One even ranked as an immediate parole and could be assigned quarters (the battle had provided them with no shortage of spares in this regard), and that was the duty of another officer. The other rang familiar in her mind when she saw it: Daub Lasck. "Clarify what Lasck is charged with for me," she said, "I can't remember right offhand."

"War criminal, sir," the Commander answered, "He participated in the construction of the _Death Star_. We lost track of him during the Battle of Hoth."

Seva nodded. The list detailing the technicians and engineers responsible for the space station they just managed to destroy a second example of was refreshingly short. Few escaped the station destroyed at Yavin; consequently; Lasck was a name now infamous. Only Bevel Lemelisk, the chief designer, was more eagerly sought out but he was proving to be illusive. "He showed up out here?" Seva mused as she read the data pad, "What a surprise."

From across the bridge a loud Wookiee roar boomed across the room. It belonged to a graying male named Kriban and he did not sound at all happy. Ordinarily quiet and cheerful Kriban stormed through the room angry enough to scrape his foot claws on the deck. He demanded to know who ordered Lasck imprisoned again at the top of his mighty lungs until Seva waved him wearily over to her command chair. Rubbing her brow she leaned forward and straightened a bit as he approached.

The Mon Calimari Commander was a bit flustered by the entrance of the shaggy beast (he dwarfed the far more familiar Chewbacca), but he was sensitive enough to Seva's condition to step in. "I can handle this, Captain. With your permission I'll…"

Seva cut him off, "It's my prisoner, Commander. I'll deal with it."

Looking up at the massive alien in front of her she made no attempt to conceal her annoyance. "Let me get this straight. Why are you upset about Lasck?"

Kriban roared his outrage and would have said more had Seva's chair not leapt directly up to his eye level. Seva batted the side of Kriban's head deftly with one hand, "I can hear you just fine, big guy," she snapped.

The Wookiee was surprised to be sure, as were the rest of the bridge crew, but his anger settled a notch. He explained that he would not allow Lasck to be a prisoner. A grave injustice would be served in doing so, and furthermore Kriban's honor would be injured if he allowed it to happen.

Seva gazed levelly at Kriban. "I'm not impressed," she said. "He's a war criminal."

Kriban growled back that she was mistaken. The charges against him did not reflect the restitution he paid or his intentions. He had recently escaped from the Imperial prison and had fought in the battle. In addition he was instrumental in freeing eighty, possibly more, Wookiees from the station itself.

Seva was impatient for Kriban to finish his argument. Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, she said, "The courts will decide his guilt no matter what he's done to atone for his crimes." Kriban began to roar again, but she silenced him with an upraised hand. "It is not my place to lay blame, but it is my brig. So he goes there until a court can try him."

Kriban growled that one of the rescued Wookiees was his son.

Seva would not budge, "He still has to stand trial."

Kriban told her the Wookiees aboard would keep him in their personal quarters.

"No need," Seva said, "The brig is no where near full."

The huge, shaggy male told her that was unacceptable, and with a powerful blow struck her chair to the deck with a crash.

"Dammit, Kriban!" a new voice boomed across the room, "Now I got to fix that."

Seva staggered to her feet and glared across the bridge at the entrance stood Daub Lasck himself flanked by five Wookiees. Among them she recognized Chewbacca and one other named Ruffu who was stationed aboard the ship.

It is worth mentioning that Seva Kect was not at all pleasant to look at by human standards. During her tenure in Blue Squadron she was horribly burned. Scarring extended in a mottled mass over her face and over the greater share of her body. Bacta had saved her vision and her life, but it could do nothing for the scars left behind. She was forced to wear her hair to one side in an effort to hide the missing ear and melted skin. Under her uniform, from just above the elbows to just below her knees extended a continuous belt of whitened skin resembling boiling cheese. Her back remained healthy, but she long ago gave up looking at what was still whole on her. Even now it surprised her how much it mattered to her. She had always professed a disregard for her appearance before the accident, but the shock of losing any vestige of it exposed how deeply she had deceived herself. Her first view of her ruined body in the mirror had frightened her for the first time in her life. But that was long ago. By now she was reduced to an occasional fit of weeping in private.

However, the injury produced a benefit. As a beautiful woman, she struggled to be taken seriously. After the accident, her peers could not do enough to console her. Rivals set aside grudges, and colleagues were eager to seek her out. Seva took advantage of every moment she remained in their good graces to further her ambitions while it lasted. By the time life returned to normal, she had silenced her critics with her abilities, and frightened those who dared diminish her with her fierce new appearance. Her icy stare could wilt the bravest of men twice her size, and she used it to great effect.

That same stare blazed across the bridge directly Lasck. Mon Calamari, Duros, and all the humans in the room flinched but not him. It took a second for her to notice his attention was fixed on the ruined chair rather than her. Annoyed, she walked past Kriban directly up to the man flanked by a virtual wall of hair. "Don't ignore me, Mr. Lasck," she snapped in his face.

Lasck wearily shifted his eyes directly into hers. They did not widen in alarm or blink with shock when he did so, only deepened with exhaustion.

"Tell your friends you'll be going to the brig, Mr. Lasck," Seva ordered.

"Is there a bed in it?" he asked.

For a moment the improbable question so unbalanced Seva thought he had propositioned her. She bristled but soon noticed that he was not standing under his own power. Instead the Wookiees held him upright so he appeared to be standing at attention.

"Yes there is," Seva answered.

"Will I be allowed to sleep?" he asked.

Kriban roared that he would not suffer the injustice of a cell when comfortable quarters could be found. The other Wookiees raised their own voices to agree. The heated debate over who might have the honor of hosting Lasck deafaned all on the bridge for a full minute before it bagan to die down. Seva joined in the din by ordering Lasck taken to the brig. The Wookiees relented only after Seva allowed Kriban and his son to guard Lasck.

Somewhat satisfied the protective wall of hair closed around Lasck and carried him from the bridge. As they moved down the corridor she saw Lasck collapse. Kriban heaved the man onto his massive shoulder and carried him dead asleep. Seva caught a glimpse of Lasck's head lolling gently against Kriban's shoulder like an infant in a parent's arms, and she noted that he was being handled with that kind of gentle tenderness by the old Wookiee. It should have been a ridiculous sight, but she found it strangely touching. As if someone long lost had finally found his way home just in time, and those who'd been worried sick before were now in the full throws of relief.

"Captain?" the helmsman said.

Seva, chagrined, mused aloud, "I've never been in an outfit that negotiates its prison sentences." She shook her head and retuned her attention to the Commander. "What was your name? I'm afraid I've forgotten it."

"Ivic, sir, Lieutenant Commander Ivic," he replied.

Seva smiled her ghastly grin and returned her attention to the data pad. "Flight plans, Ivic?"

"Yes, Captain, I…"

Seva cut him off. "I am unaware of my being promoted past Commander, Ivic. My being in charge is purely provisional."

Ivic waved a hand airily in a Mon Calamari gesture equivalent to a proud smile. "Then I have congratulations to deliver," he said. "Your promotion was confirmed an hour ago."

Seva wasn't impressed, "Confirmed?" she demanded.

"Yes," he said then added, "Captain."

Still unimpressed she demanded, "My new post?"

Ivic blinked in surprise. He turned to the rest of the crew. By the confused looks this produced Seva guessed they already knew. Then as one they all stood to face her and bowed deeply. "_Home One _is yours, Captain," Ivic said when he straightened.

Seva gaped. Not only had she commanded this ship in the fight of their lives, but now she had risen over the heads of a number of more senior Captains to the premier command in the fleet. For the first time in her frustrating series of careers, she had been handed a piece of luck along with a hearty congratulation. Thunderstruck she struggled for words. "That's…" she began but trailed off, "…good news."

Ivic lead the crew in a brief round of applause. And hereafter the ice was broken between the _Independence_ and her.

As everyone moved back to their posts, Ivic continued with the received orders. "Alright, we need to make ready for a move to Mon Cal. Admiral Ackbar wants to repair the fleet at the shipyards there."

"Why not Sluis Van or Sullust?" Seva asked. "Either one is closer by far."

"Scouts coming in from Sullust report Imperial ships retreating from Endor going through that system. Sluis Van was never cleared of the Imperial Station there. Mon Cal is the only stronghold we have for sure. Besides that General Calrissian brokered a deal yesterday to get us refitted quicker out there," Ivic said. He went on to detail the particulars of the deal. They now stood at two thirds strength having lost a fifth of their forces during battle plus a few more to redeployment of the fleet. Endor had to be abandoned. Their objectives had been met and they gained nothing by holding it. The Imperials were sure to muster a fleet soon enough to crush them if they stayed, and they risked being outflanked if they remained, just like the Rebels had done to the _Death Star_.

"What about our damage?" Seva asked. "Can we jump to hyper?"

Ivic tensed, "That's complicated," he said slowly. "The power grid is acting strange." He detailed the damage he knew about, but it was extensive and more was being discovered as they went. Ackbar had transferred his Flag to the _Defiance_ since it was less heavily damaged. There was talk of one of his immediate subordinates taking command of the _Independence_ battle group in some scheme to launch a new offensive. Red and Blue squadrons had transferred to Ackbar's ship in an effort to keep firepower mobile. Meanwhile Green, Gold, and Grey squadrons were retained aboard _Independence_ in an effort to keep the heavy maintenance cluttering up as few hangars as possible. Gold squadron emerged from the surface of the space station badly mauled, and Grey Squadron had been sent in to clear an escape path for the core raiders. The Grays were at full strength, but their B-Wings were hangar queens, and they all needed maintenance. Green squadron, by contrast, had never gone near the station, but they had dropped _Executor's_ shields before a lone A-Wing from Blue squadron rammed the bridge. Much of their damage was from fighter-to-fighter combat, but two had been caught in heavy turbolaser fire and had somehow survived. The Greens, all told, had the highest kill tally next to the Blues, and had virtually wrecked themselves in doing it. Ship collisions, torpedo fragments, ion damage, concussion fractures from the explosions of Star Destroyers, _Executor,_ and the _Death Star_ itself had all but crippled _Independence_ and her remaining fighters. Any way he ran it, a jump to light speed or to sortie ships was problematic at best.

"And you let me sleep while all this was going on?" Seva asked.

Ivic managed to be upbeat. "We had to sort ourselves out before you tore into us."

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"Just how am I mistaken?" Admiral Ackbar demanded.

Admiral Miftir leaned forward and jabbed a finned finger at the star chart. "We know they moved to Sullust," he said.

"A few of them," Ackbar cautioned, "We aren't sure how many either. A few more Star Destroyers might converge there."

Miftir impatiently pointed out that the entire fleet had been here only yesterday, "And we still outfought them. If we hurl our forces against a remnant and crush it, we can keep our momentum going to further victory," he reasoned.

Ackbar doubted they had the forces to affect the kind of tactical success Miftir advocated, but he listened nonetheless for anything he might have missed. "How many ships do you have in mind?"

"At least a squadron of cruisers plus their support ships and fighter escorts. We can go to Sullust, drive them off and…"

Ackbar interrupted, "Sullust is along the Rimma Trade Rout. Reinforcements could be on the way there from the Outer Rim or the Core Worlds."

Miftir dismissed this line of reasoning, "All the more reason to strike now. The more time we give them to consolidate, the more likely they are to make a stand."

Ackbar found himself agreeing with his subordinate. If they could keep the pressure on and keep the Imperials running, the Alliance would be unstoppable. Tactically the strategy was sound. Militarily the strategy was sound. However, in a discouraging twist, politics would not allow it. Unlike the Admirals of the Empire, Ackbar was brutally aware of how politics affected strategy. With effort and the proper intelligence, Ackbar knew he could drive the Empire out of existence. But he was not a man of conquest; rather, he was a man of freedom. And he would loath the Alliance becoming a repressive band of warmongers. His history as a slave dictated to him the most serious definition of conscience.

Miftir, by contrast, saw no such line to be crossed. His conscience told him to pursue his enemy with unrelenting fury until a satisfactory conclusion could be reached. The Galactic Civil war had raged, in one form or another, for decades now. It was time to end it. It did not broaden his perspective one bit to include personal vengeance into his thinking.

Miftir had every right to hold a grudge against the Empire, and one only had to look at him to guess why. One of his massive grey eyes had been sliced from his head and a number of toes had been burned from his feet by his former Imperial overseer. In addition, all his family, two daughters, a wife, a son, and his parents, had all perished in bondage to Imperial governors from one world or another. Neuronic goads had left scars on almost all his body. From his suffering he gathered intensity, ferocity, and tenacity. But nowhere in him was a shred of mercy for the Empire. If he could have managed it, he would have killed Palpatine with his bare hands and still have enough rage to turn to the Imperial next in line.

Ackbar knew Miftir to be brilliant, thoughtful, and kind to a fault. He knew the younger Mon Calamari would much rather return to his old life before Imperial slavers came. He knew that beneath the rage and personal torment laid the heart of a school teacher and mentor. That the man had a passion for fishing and a flair for Language was overshadowed by his personal loss. Ackbar could sympathize, but could not bring himself to sink into his torment to the extent Miftir had. Miftir would gleefully kill Imperials until all were dead and then turn on collaborators until half the Galaxy bathed in blood. Ackbar did not want that horrible future to come to pass. There had been enough of that.

"Admiral," Ackbar said gently, "We don't have those kinds of forces. We exhausted our supplies and our people yesterday. If we had to stand against a squadron of Star Destroyers right now we would have to flee the field."

Miftir pounded the table between them. "I disagree!" he snapped. "We can drive them beyond the Halo if we strike now! Give me the forces and I'll prove it."

Ackbar sighed. Miftir's passion was proving persuasive, but the numbers did not add up. How this would be perceived worried him deeply. At first it might come as a glorious string of victories, but eventually the body count would prove a hazardous shadow to the optimism the Alliance wanted to bring about. Strategically: hope was the most potent weapon the Rebel Alliance had at its disposal. Not fear, not ships, or fleets but hope was bringing down the Empire from within. To threaten that hope would spell the end of the New Republic Mon Mothma hoped to create.

Miftir had to be doing something though. The kind of action he advocated appealed to Ackbar's military sensibility. The Imperials could not be allowed to regain their equilibrium. They had to keep them reacting to Alliance forces instead of acting on their own. The scale Miftir suggested, however, was out of the question.

"I can give you the _Independence_ battle group," Ackbar offered. "Everything else is going to be occupied."

"Making a move on Coruscant soon, Admiral?" Miftir asked. "That would be a mistake. We do not need that miserable planet to achieve victory."

Ackbar flushed angrily. Miftir's instincts were accurate as ever. The next objective was indeed Coruscant, but few were supposed to know about it. It was all part of the Alliance strategy of working the pyramid structure of the Imperial government from the top down. Miftir argued against this trend. Beheading the power structure created a false sense of security. Palpatine had proven that. The change had to come from within the minds and hearts of every individual. The will had to be expressed from the heart of the Imperial subject to desire the rights of a citizen. The quickest way to accomplish this (and the most revealing) was to remove fear from the backdrop. Fear came in the form of threats, and threats came in the form of military hardware under the command of those willing to use it against the populace. Therefore Miftir's objectives worked up the power structure rather than down it. Every Star Destroyer, every TIE fighter, and every Stormtrooper had to be eliminated or disarmed before the Empire would fall. While elegant in theory, it was far from sweeping in effect. A war of attrition fought across the Galaxy in countless small engagements with success measured in slow, ponderous sweeps from system to system. The "Star by Star" strategy as Miftir called it. But the Alliance high command was more interested in broad, sweeping strokes that would force the issue through a general rejection of the New Order. Miftir's ideas had little appeal against the aesthetics of these people.

In a sudden stroke of insight, Ackbar had a solution. Miftir was anxious to press the attack and had the skill to pull successive strikes off without demolishing his command while wreaking havoc amongst the Imperials. Ackbar lacked the forces to take his next major objective any time soon. By combining these into a single strategy Ackbar could satisfy them both. "Prove it then," Ackbar said.

Miftir's single eye blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?" he said dazedly.

"Take the _Independence_ and assault Coruscant," Ackbar said. "Prove to me and the High Command we don't need Coruscant to forge a New Republic."

Miftir stared fixedly at Ackbar for a long time. "It'll take more than an assault, Admiral," he said. "The Imperials must abandon it before we can move in, and that'll require a campaign not a strike."

"I'm not so sure," Ackbar said. "The defenses could be overwhelmed."

"We'll never control the planet unless they are drawn off the planet. Razing the surface will be the only way to deactivate the defenses. The civilian death toll would be in the billions if not utterly wiped out," Miftir said.

Ackbar tried not to gloat. This most aggressive of his subordinates was now in a position arguing moderation, and the irony of it amused him. "You'll figure it out, but a raid on Coruscant would accomplish more than Sullust or Sluis Van."

Miftir slumped in his chair trapped by Ackbar's logic. "True," he sighed. "I'll submit a plan by the end of the day."

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Daub awoke when Kriban lay him down on his cell's cot. He appraised the small, grey box of durasteel with the authority born of experience. Another cell, another prison, another set of strictly enforced rules designed to crush the spirit; this was his third one in two weeks. _Damn it!_

Kriban growled, "Rest, my friend. Those you saved yesterday will free you."

"Prison again," he said. "It's getting old."

"I remember Kabayoth telling you something similar back on Despayer," Kriban told him.

"I'm not sure I can be saved again, Kriban," Daub said. "My luck has to run out sometime."

"Luck has little to do with it, my friend," Kriban said.

"I'm a monster, Kriban. Even my sons tell me so," Daub said.

Kriban shook his shaggy head, "You keep saving others, my former master. You are far from a monster." When Daub did not reply Kriban added, "You saw your sons?"

Daub nodded, "Tikal is a Spacetrooper now. Reece is in the Intel business." After a thoughtful pause he said, "They don't know each other all that well."

"Tragic," Kriban agreed. "Brothers should know each other."

"Fathers should know their sons," Daub said. He was drifting off again. It had been four days since he last slept, and every moment more was an act of will to stay awake. "It began that way for us…" he trailed off.

Kriban moved outside the cell so the Twe'lek could lock it behind him. The door shut with a clang, and the view inside came through a monitor at the guard station. Kriban made himself comfortable beside the Twe'lek and settled in until his son came to watch over Daub.

"You look sad, Kriban," the Twe'lek said.

"That man saved more of us than any other human alive. And in return he had everything he loved stolen from him," Kriban growled.

"Maybe he should stop saving people," the guard remarked.

Kriban snorted, "He can't. He hasn't forgiven himself yet. He won't stop until he saves everyone including you."

"Are you saying he's innocent?" the guard asked.

"No," Kriban growled with sudden gravity. "He has the blood of billions on his hands."

"How did that happen?" the guard asked.

"He built the road to hell," Kriban said.


	6. Daub the Mad

"I want to build a house," Daub said.

Senator Mithras Lasck regarded his son with undisguised amusement. Coming from virtually anyone else, such a statement would be unremarkable, but not here. "Really?" he asked with a chuckle.

The six-year-old boy nodded, "Uh-huh."

His ten-year-old brother added, "We can do it, Dad."

Mithras smiled broadly. "Do you think so, Rook?"

Rook straightened to his full height and puffed up his chest, "I'm certain of it."

Their father wondered briefly what had gotten into his two sons, but decided against questioning them on the spot. He did not want to discourage them. If they built something together and enjoyed themselves (better still: if he could help,) they might learn a few valuable things. On the other hand, if they failed, Daub and Rook would learn a great deal more. Failures are tools parents use to see into the truth of their children. They are far more revealing of the people they might become than success. No one wants to fail, children least of all. While Mithras did not like to watch his children fail, he knew that they had to learn to pick themselves up and try again. In any case, he found himself intrigued that they found building something interesting enough to try. That in itself was quite revealing.

"Where did you want to start?" Mithras asked. He kept his voice light and amused; all the better to hear the full extent of their plan.

Daub thrust a crude sketch on a piece of paper into Mithras' hand. It detailed the barest outline of the house, but Mithras could not really tell what the boy wanted to show him.

"Daub," Rook scolded, "don't give him that!" The older boy snatched the scrap of paper out of Mithras' hand and replaced it with a datapad. The boy keyed the image to life, and beamed when his father stared in approving astonishment. "What do you think, Dad?"

Mithras knew his oldest child was an artist, but this was jaw-dropping even for Rook. He was looking at a detailed blueprint of a structure including floor plan, energy harness, sub-structure, frame structure, windows, door frames, appliances, plumbing, and everything else short of a contractor's seal. "I'm impressed," he said, meaning it, "You thought this up, Rook?"

Daub shook his head. He looked like he wanted to speak, but could not settle on the words.

Rook spoke instead. "I drew it up. Daub thought it through. He told me what he wanted, and I talked him through this."

Mithras, thunderstruck, could only gape at his boys. "You did all this on your own?" he asked. When the boys nodded happily, he examined the datapad more intently. Almost at once he found a problem. "You want to build it here?" he asked.

"Yes," Rook said. "We can start in the courtyard with the new living room, and tear down the house one room at a time until it's done."

"Tear down the house," their father said uncertainly. "What's wrong with it now?"

"Too short," Daub blurted. He looked like he was about to say more, but, again, could not decide what else to say.

"We keep seeing you bump your head on the ceiling, Dad," Rook explained. "This house will be much taller. Also look at the next page," the boy said and switched over to a beautiful, walk-through view of the interior of the house they proposed. "Look at the play of light and shadow. We have all these floor lamps scattered about the house because it's so dim in here. We'll be able to open it up in here."

Mithras found his astonishment open up to depths he never knew existed. "Light and shadow?" he repeated unable to believe what he was hearing.

Mithras knew his sons were bright. He encouraged Rook to paint holo images from a young age along with other things, but the boy grew so talented many of the walls of the house were frescoed with Rook's work. Daub was a mechanical genius, and he could barely be restrained from dismantling anything in his path.

Rook, at age ten, was just now getting into his full, creative stride. When he was little, he played with color and shading until he could imitate flowers and sunsets in perfect detail. He had a passion for landscapes, and devoured images of alien worlds, noting the colors and shapes. Schools declared him a prodigy, and they had lobbied ceaselessly for the boy to come and study at their institutions since Rook was seven. The boy refused to be moved from home citing his need for his friends and family. He kept painting in flowers and landscapes until Mithras quietly suggested he might want to try painting people for a change. By now Rook was rendering beautiful portraits of those he saw around him. Among the first was a playful image of his baby sister Mystery appearing to balance against the stem of a Falleen sun lily. "She's chubby," he said about the holo, "I like the way the shape of the flower slims her down." Another was a strange image of Chancellor Vellourum. In it, the man bowed his head as though in defeat and sorrow, one hand brought up to his brow in a gesture of weariness. "He looks so strong this way," Rook explained.

Mithras showed the holo to Vellourum and asked him what he thought. The Chancellor thought it "rather revealing" and spent an afternoon with Rook and his father talking about their impressions of other members of the Senate.

Before long images of all kinds filled their home on Coruscant, and Mithras began sending them back to the family homestead on Ruth. The Lasck family back on the home world was thrilled with what they saw and immediately began sending images for Rook to draw inspiration from. The boy gleefully made image after image until he had a portrait of all his relatives.

The most revealing thing about the boy was his refusal to declare even a single image a masterpiece. Instead he lingered on what he called the "big truth" of the subject. If he could draw out his feelings about whomever he painted or catch the emotion of that person; he was satisfied.

His real talent lay in his notion of people. He was never wrong. Rook could tell what made anyone tick. He could read others flawlessly, front and back. Human or alien, by voice or by image, it made no difference. He spotted liars and cowards instantly, and helped Mithras many times to steer such people into revealing themselves. If someone was an honest dealer, they could count on Mithras' son to send the respected senator their way. As a result, Mithras was surrounded by the unimpeachable trust and warmest friendships any senator had ever known. Even though many of his close colleagues tended to undermine Mithras' political goals by their minority status and refusal to bend their principles, the boy's knack for spotting shady dealers kept his father's name a respected one.

Rook's friends reflected the same value for character and honesty the boy surrounded his father with. Loved and respected by all who knew him well, he was (if not at the center of) at the heart of all attention. He had a strange ability to inspire his friends into the fullest form of life they ever experienced. While hard to explain in any great detail, all his friends cherished his company.

Daub, on the other hand, was either too young or too strange to have many social skills. Instead he had that rare talent of being able to look at any object and knowing how to take it apart and put it back together again. Behind his quiet, somewhat befuddled expression lay the mind of a genius. His confusion was with people not the rest of the world around him.

When Daub was three, he ripped apart the repulsor engine of a visiting friend of Mithras'. When a mighty _clang_ erupted from the landing pad all in the house came running to find out what was wrong. The boy had cut the power to the idling repulsor and dropped the car to the surface of the pad. Out of one of the engines crawled the boy, covered in grease, and holding dirty relay. Before anyone could stop him, Daub wiped the relay on his shirt in a few careful strokes and crawled back into the engine. The adults bolted for the car, but before they got there the car bobbed back off the platform and Daub crawled out. He was mystified why they were so concerned. Mithras' friend immediately had the car looked over by a professional. Nothing was found except that the car used half as much fuel, and no one could explain why.

Mithras eventually got used to Daub's eccentricities. Over the years his friends began bringing their repairs to the senator's home. Half-joking they would ask, "Can your son look at it?" More often than not, Mithras' strange, little boy could find the problem and fix it.

Sometime along the way the boy began building things. Toys, tools, and a score of small vehicles he used to move around the city were only the beginning of what he managed to assemble. But all of those things were no larger than a shoe box.

By now nothing should have surprised Mithras, but rebuilding their house was on a scale beyond any Daub had ever attempted. Any other parent would have denied his son this project, but Mithras saw few reasons to stop Daub. If the boy did not find his threshold soon he would never be normal. That, more than anything, worried him the most. Not everyone could tinker and toy with machines with the blissful skill Daub did, but everyone had to know their limits. And Mithras was more than a little concerned where those limits might be for his son even at this tender age.

To say Daub lacked social skills grossly understated the truth. He had almost none at all. He barely spoke, and could never remember to eat on his own. At the dinner table, he kept his father in stitches by his antics. He walked on the table, passed the dishes around only after installing mini-repulsors and sliding them around the table, and had a habit of blurting out strange announcements to the company like: "Mystery's using your robe for a parachute, Senator." Or "Rook wants to paint your girlfriend naked." Or "If you were a genius, Rook would tell you." Or "My teacher at school told me she'd have your baby, Chancellor." Or "If you want your oppppp… opapo…opposition to crumble feed them some of mom's deserts." Or most often "Treat your droids like pets." These announcements always came out of the clear blue, and never failed to cause an eruption of laughter. Often he would stare earnestly at whomever he was talking to while they laughed, oblivious to the joke and expecting some answer. To hear his flat little voice and see his sincere manner made most of what he did or said a riot.

Never angry, never demanding, always blissfully unaware of his faults no matter how many times it was explained to him, Daub managed to be the good boy his father wanted him to be. But he was still very strange.

Mithras knew why his children had these abilities, and only half the reason came from a good place. Rook's art and charisma came from a confidence only his father could instill. Rook knew what he was capable of because Mithras disciplined with a kind word and a good example. When the boy wanted to try something new, father acted as a guide through it rather than a deterrent until greater maturity was achieved. Daub's technical prowess stemmed from his father's willingness to allow him to experiment to further his experience. His daughter Mystery also leaned heavily on her father's mighty shoulders, and was developing into a brilliant acrobat and charming girl.

But there was a balance struck in their outlook. The children had only one active parent. Osprey Lasck wanted nothing to do with her children. As a result much of what the children did was in an effort to win affection from their mother. Mithras feared that all his kids would grow up to be these fabulously talented… _creatures_ that lacked even the slightest shred of purpose or compassion. What made it heartbreaking was his culpability.

Mithras loved his wife Osprey enough that he could not find fault with her, instead he settled the blame upon himself and did what any Lasck did: everything he set his mind to extremely well. Back on Ruth, the Lasck line had flourished quietly for five millennia. They were farmers, merchants, lawyers, builders, and, on the whole, very good neighbors. But not one of them in all that time had ever grown ambitious. Osprey changed that forever. Osprey, and the times she heralded, would destroy the Lasck family forever, and Mithras was her weapon of choice.

When they met, Mithras had been a content, respected lawyer. Osprey had been a student at a local university studying for a degree in history. Mithras was violently in love with her from the start. Friends warned him she saw him only as a vehicle to her own designs, but he ignored them. By the time they were married, she had turned him away from his quiet life and made him look into public life.

Osprey was passionate, demanding, driven, and utterly merciless with herself and her husband. She saw Mithras as the one who would open the doors she could not, and the most conscientious sounding board any researcher ever had. When her research demanded she needed to move closer to the capital of Ruth, she convinced her adoring husband to run for an office there and did not rest until he got it. When she received her doctorate and was offered a job at the Republic archives on Coruscant, she begged Mithras to run for a senate seat. When he demurred, she went into a rage shouting, crying, pleading, and eventually seducing her husband into reconsidering.

She bore the children, but no one could mistake how upsetting they were to her. Rook received a few weeks attention from his mother before she abandoned him for her studies. Daub and Mystery didn't receive any attention at all. Mithras was horrified to watch her as the delivery droid moved forward to show her Daub for the first time. "Your son mis…" the rest was lost in a droid screech of alarm as Osprey batted it angrily away. The droid almost dropped the infant, but Mithras managed to steady both machine and child before Daub could take a nasty spill.

"Can I leave yet?" Osprey screamed at the droid. "I don't have time for this!"

When Mystery was born, Mithras left explicit instructions for the baby to be brought directly to him.

Osprey saw the children around the house and spoke to them about her day, but she never acted the part of their mother

Mithras narrowly kept himself from returning home to Ruth after Mystery's birth. But Ruth needed him here now, and (to his shame) he still loved his wife. He was still in thrall of her, endlessly dazzling and fascinating him to new depths of affection.

Fortunately for the children, Mithras was a loving and doting father. He found joy in his children so profound he almost neglected his duties as a senator. Strangely, all the kids loved Osprey almost as blindly as Mithras himself.

It left Mithras with these wildly talented kids and no direction to point them. Shaping them into what they were supposed to be was what his mother had done with him and his father had given him the tools of character he would need to get through it. He feared they were missing something crucial. He was right. Without Osprey's influence, the children became shaped by their skills rather than by their parents love. Even though Mithras devoted every moment he could and loved them twice as much, Rook, Daub, and Mystery became cynical, detached, and emotionally immature.

Something had to give. Mithras felt Daub's case was the most severe of the lot. If Daub did not reach a threshold, and reach it soon, he might never grow mature enough to function as an adult. Already the boy was terrifying his teachers with his abilities, and it appeared only Rook could reign him in.

So in an effort to cull his son's fantastic talent, Mithras allowed the boys to begin building a new house. The building code alone should be enough to discourage them. If he imposed the same restrictions Coruscant bureaucracy had about building codes upon the boys, frustration would see to Daub and Rook.

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Slow astonishment is a rare breed. More often sudden, stark changes lead to surprise since the observer has no time to expect what is coming. The day Daub finished the house was a strange one to remember. After two years of methodical, unrelenting work, his eight-year-old son tested a final light, cleaned all the floors, put away his tools, and presented his incredulous parents their new house. For once Osprey was there with Mithras to experience the event. She was livid. "What do you mean, boy!" she screamed at Rook. In all this time she had not seen the house in daylight. She might have seen the changes in the gloom but never linked them to the brats. In hindsight she wondered why she had never asked Mithras what was going on. When she was told what her boys had done it had taken her a full three minutes of silence to comprehend the truth of it. Now fear and shock fueled her rage. Shocking that her young sons could accomplish this without her stabbed at her ego like a vibroblade. Fear that she was losing control of her husband to her children drove her to a near hysteria. These brats would not have her beloved husband over her desires. Her image of what her children were to become was more important than what they were capable of doing. They would not let her down, nor would they defy her careful plans for them.

"Darling," Mithras said trying to calm her, "Daub did a good job, and I'm proud of him."

Osprey stared at her husband as if he had suddenly bled his brain dry. "That boy did not build this house!" she insisted. "No son of mine will crease his hands or bend his back to labor," she declared.

"But, darling," Mithras objected, "They did a fine job. Just look around you."

Osprey did. The place was undeniably better than before. Opulent would be a fair appraisal of the place. High ceilings drew the eye up to molded arches. Every hall was wide yet made warm with color. Every room toyed with the emotions in some fashion or another. Depending on where one stood, the feelings could range from joyous elation in the family room to quiet reflection in Mithras' office. Rook had a studio, while Daub had a workshop, and Mystery had the whole house for a gymnasium thanks to the use of some clever repulsor fields Daub had concealed in the walls. Osprey's fringe benefits were non-existent since she declined to speak to Rook or Daub for any length of time. Daub had guessed that a fine office next to the master bedroom would do.

Due to Rook and Mystery's insistence, Daub installed a romantic mantle framed in the trunk of a petrified idun tree from Ithor. "It'll be good for mother and Dad," they reasoned. Daub saw no reason to contradict them.

The day the Ithorian merchant sold the trunk to Rook was memorable since the tall alien wailed in a loud, stereo, basso voice that such a priceless treasure should be wasted on the whims of children. After Daub had completed the work of installation and fashioning the idun, Rook had invited the good man back to see it. The change was stunning. Petrified idun bark was rich in nutrients, and made ideal purchase for Ithorian orchids, Ryloth cave blooms, and half a dozen other exotic flora. The flowers bloomed at different hours of the day, and heat from the mantle set off different combinations throughout the day. Far from making the room dark and drab, the room seemed to have a shifting mood throughout the day. One of the blooms even reflected light about the room like a light rain. With little care and the occasional fire, the mantle could last indefinitely. Terraced trays wrapped around the room to accommodate vines sprouting fruits and small orange blooms. The furnishings were arranged to admire the whole room and not interfere with the delicate greenhouse. The Ithorian stared at it for long minutes at first sight. Breathless, the alien man slumped into a comfortable chair while his eyes moved independently about the room. "You did this?" he asked in a voice and language that sounded like heavy boulders colliding underwater.

Daub said nothing, but Rook dived right in, "I worked out the layout and did the research. My brother fashioned it according to my ideas." Rook sounded nervous. He desperately craved approval from this man, and lacked the wits or arrogance to hide it.

The hammerhead had focused his attention on the boys. "If you need anything else, don't hesitate to contact me," he said, "This is wonderful."

"Would you change anything?" Rook asked. "A Ho'Din senator had a few things to say, but he didn't know what else to do with the idun trunk."

The Ithorian nodded his massive head in approval. "They may know their flowers, but they are wise enough to take care with idun trees," he said without derision. Turning back to the mantle he sighed deeply (with his two massive mouths and sets of vocal cords the sound caused the room to vibrate.) "But change? I would change very little. You've done a master tillers' job here."

Rook beamed with pride. Daub seemed distracted.

In a moment, Mithras came home, and the Ithorian was invited to dinner with the family. The largely unknown yet stately man kept his visitor entertained for hours while the flowers on the mantle bloomed in succession.

The Ithorian still came by to see Mithras and his kids once a week.

And it was in this room that Osprey was in a full throttle rage that wilted the nearest blooms. "_My _children," she bellowed, "Will be scholars and statesmen. Not common laborers. _My _children," she continued, "Will be artists and leaders. Not farmers and wrench-turners."

"But, mother, I designed this," Rook protested, "I thought it was a work of art. Don't you?"

Before Mithras could stop her, Osprey struck, not slapped, Rook to the floor. "_You will not lecture me!"_ she screamed. She turned to Daub who was silently watching his mother's tantrum stonily. "_And you will learn the place I have for you!"_ she bellowed into his face. "You have played the idiot boy long enough!" she declared and clobbered the boy with a sweeping backhand. "If you can make all this, you will learn to present yourself as the proper son of a Republic Senator."

Osprey brought back her hand to strike her daughter, but Mithras restrained her and dragged her screaming to their new room. When the door shut the din she was making abruptly cut off. The kids knew they had to be yelling in there, yet oppressive silence echoed through the house.

"I knew soundproofing their room was a good idea," Daub said spitting blood into the hearth.

Rook began to fight back tears, but Mystery stopped him by letting out a full throated wail. In a way it helped him to gain his composure. Mystery needed to be calmed down, and her big brother Rook had to protect her. Knowing Dad would do the same; he moved to her and embraced her gently. Through her racking sobs, he noticed Daub coldly watching the hall their parents had retreated down.

Mystery sobbed, "Mother doesn't want us!"

"Of course she does," Rook soothed, "She's just surprised."

"But she hates the house," she protested. "She hit you and Daub, and Daddy stopped her from hitting me." Her words took a while to escape her between great heaving sniffs that jarred her from top to bottom, but Rook kept her from crumpling to the floor.

"She's just upset," Rook said. It sounded hollow and wrong even to him, but he was the eldest and was supposed to have an answer to these things.

"She hates me!" Mystery cried.

"So what," Daub said quietly, "You're Dad's favorite anyway. What do we care what she thinks?"

Rook was old enough to know that what Daub said were the cruelest words yet. "Don't make it worse, Daub," he warned.

"I just meant that Dad still wants us," Daub said.

The house erupted in noise as their parents emerged from their room. Shouting at full volume, their mother accused their father of being small and weak among other things. Their father spoke calmly to soothe her, but was only provoking her more with his composure. Osprey threatened to send the children away to various boarding schools to "teach them the proper manners of the Aristocracy" while Mithras calmly told her she would do no such thing. She accused him of raising a peasant mob under her roof while he told her to calm down and take a look at her office. She told him he was a small minded slave, and he stared at her blankly.

Satisfied her point was made, Osprey stormed out of her new home to return to the archives. After a few hours of blissful study, she might return. Or she might retire to a fellow professor's home to vent out whatever frustration remained.

When she left, Mithras looked uncharacteristically sad. His easy smile and bright eyes were gone. Every part of him seemed to sag and shrink, and for a moment Rook was noticeably taller than his father. He was drained, and his kids saw it plain and new to their young eyes.

It was more than Mystery could bear. She rushed to her father and sobbed anew against him while she clutched fiercely at his leg. When he stood still as stone for a moment too long she begged him not to leave them here alone with mother.

That finally brought him around. He shook himself free of his concerns and tended to his kids. There was no way to ignore Osprey's behavior, but he could tend to his kids without much backlash.

Holding Mystery gently Mithras said, "I guess she doesn't like the place."

Rook leapt into action. "We can rebuild. I can redesign the place to suit her better. It should only take a bit of time."

Mithras shook his head. "No, son, the place is just fine. I might have someone redecorate, but not you."

Daub extracted a loose tooth Osprey had managed to knock free and tossed it into the fireplace. "Why bother?" he said. "Mother will be terrified of the change anyway."

Rook bowed his head. Daub was right. Their mother was terrified of the unexpected, and that meant that nothing could be done. Even if they changed everything back, the act of changing it would be unbearable for her. The fact that her sons had changed it originally would only emphasize what others returned to normal. They could not even move to another house for fear of alarming her. "We have some hard times ahead," he said.

"She'll come around," Mithras said. "She's too absorbed in her research to notice this for long."

"Besides," Rook said, "Gwavem would be heartbroken if we changed the place." He spoke of the Ithorian they still had over for dinner once a week.

Mithras laughed, "I suppose we can't disappoint him."

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But Osprey didn't stop at the Archives. She went directly to Daub's school and reenrolled him in the Military Institute of Chalidrila. The next day, two of the MIC's uniformed representatives collected Daub and a few of his belongings from the house he had just completed. He was marched to a waiting transport and off Coruscant that day. Over the next few years, he was under the strictest discipline and punished harshly. By the time he graduated, Osprey had obtained an appointment to the Academy on Caridia, and was sent off again. Rook was just graduating from the Academy himself, and his standing in his class made Daub's enrollment easier.

Before Daub left for Caridia, Osprey spoke to him for the first time in ten years and the last time in his life. "Don't fail, boy," she snapped, "You're going to serve the Republic."

With rigid self control, the young man preyed aloud, "May the Force grant that I never hold a grudge like you can, Mother."

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Sitting in his cell after a full three hours of sleep, Daub had to admit that he could trace his way back to that house on Coruscant and his mother's order that he serve without fail. It sickened him now to know how dutiful he had been to her over the years. He had served with such vigor that he was now a criminal to every world he knew. While not a killer, he had killed occasionally for the Emperor. More often self-defense caused him to raise his hand against another, but he was a soldier and his trade demanded his obedience.

The door to his cell opened and a grizzled, one-eyed Mon Calamari entered with Kriban behind him. The white uniform meant nothing to him. He was never allowed aboard the new Mon Calamari cruisers during his tenure with the Rebellion. But the face was familiar.

"Miftir?" Daub said pleasantly surprised. "Thank the Force, am I glad to see you alive and well." They had met on Hoth a time or two, and Daub liked the officer who he remembered was as fierce as they came.

"Lasck," Miftir said in greeting. "Do you understand they mean to execute you?"

Daub snorted back a bitter laugh, "I'm not surprised."

Miftir nodded and presented his case. "I can provide you with a stay of execution if you cooperate."

Without hesitation Daub said, "Go on."

"It's a beast of a job though," Miftir admitted, "I'll need you to get this ship up and moving within the week. Can you do it?"

Daub sighed. He knew it always would boil down to his precious skills and his lack of any real persuasion. Time and again he worked his way out of a mess someone else had made and lacked the ability to clean up; only to be thrust headlong into another one. But at least he knew what was at stake. "Let's get started and find out."

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Half an hour later, Captain Seva Kect received the first of what became a downpour of complaints. Without prior authorization, two full decks in engineering evacuated and depressurized. After a few moments she managed to figure out why but by that time another complaint had surfaced for her to investigate.

Apparently someone activated the emergency lock down for the engineering section. In the pandemonium that followed the security panel controlling the environmental systems to every deck had been left unattended. The engineer in charge swore the panel was locked down before he left, but the depressurized decks and the bypassed alarms made it clear that it had been overridden.

Engineers in space suits waited for permission to go outside the ship to inspect the hull, but by that time the second complaint reached Captain Kect.

Every droid on the ship had vanished into engineering without orders, the new report informed her; before too long more strange things began cropping up back there. What finally alarmed her was the main reactor shut down and the auxiliary plant came to emergency power. If the auxiliary generator scrammed, the ship would be dark and adrift for at least an hour while the main generator was powered up; assuming it could power up.

The bridge crew was in full crisis mode when Admiral Miftir walked calmly onto the bridge. His single grey eye surveyed the mayhem and settled on Seva. "I'm disappointed the ship requires this amount of effort just to sit here, Captain," he informed her. It was clear he did not approve of her in charge of a Mon Calamari ship just by the tone of his voice, and she saw a few heads nod in approval.

Angered she ignored the Admiral in flagrant abuse of military etiquette. "Is anyone back there?" she demanded of the duty officer.

The Chief Engineer answered for the man, but Seva did not silence his insolence. She was fuming at being so casually treated. She was the Captain, and as such she wanted people to speak when spoken to not blab every stray thought. But the man did answer her question. "No one was back there when I left. I'm not sure if the sensors are on line to check if that is still the case.

"They're not," the second watch Engineer declared. The Mon Calamari had been roused from a sound sleep and for that was in no mood to debate trivialities. "Power to those sensors can only come from the main reactor so they don't put a drain on the emergency units."

"Get those men outside to check the hull. We need any information we can gather," Seva ordered.

Disagreement on this issue was sharp and loud. The Chief Engineer wanted to send the men directly into the affected areas while the third watch Engineer wanted to find all the droids to figure it out. An immediate clamor of disagreements filled the room to capacity for a full five minutes.

"Quiet!" Miftir bellowed. Many buckled under the force of his voice and everyone flinched at the command. Mon Calamari have powerful vocal cords from their aquatic nature. The Admiral was aware he had not even used his full throated shout and still managed to cause physical pain. In a normal tone he explained that he had sent a specialist into Engineering to get the ship moving. That specialist had full authority to do as he pleased until the ship got moving again.

The Chief Engineer couldn't stop a groan of exasperation. "You sent Lasck in?" he asked in disbelief.

Miftir could hardly restrain an impish grin. "Does that upset you, Chief?"

The tired man couldn't stop his chatter from incriminating himself further. "I'll never get this ship back together after he's done down there. He'll ruin the motivators before he repairs a single light fixture."

As if to confirm his prediction the lights flickered around them then flashed to emergency battery power.

Bedlam ensued. Voices rose to a din like the clamor industrial machinery. Tempers snapped already frayed nerves. Arguments broke out, and order was lost.

For ten minutes they went on in this way. Then the lights came back on again. The ship lurched as the main engines fired back to life. The helmsman had carelessly left the throttle control to full power, and the _Independence_ heaved her bulk along like a startled bantha. By the time he managed to draw back the thrust, the ship groaned a mighty howl as her keel flexed under the force of the struggling engines.

Almost like clockwork, systems came on line that had formally been smashed and inoperable flashed to life. For a few minutes the ship buzzed and chirped as one panel or a single system came back on line. Panels lit up with a flourish of light and noise then each breaker, circuit, and algorithm tested itself in meticulous detail. One after another this was repeated around the bridge and all over the ship. It was like a man trying on a well worn and often repaired set of clothing. Seva could almost imagine a fastidious man brushing out wrinkles and pulling at hems. The whole process spoke of an intimacy bordering on self-conscious care.

Then two droids appeared. One was a battered protocol model, and his companion was a tiny messenger droid that raced around to avoid the tread of ignorant feet. "Pardon me, sir," the Protocol droid said to a Rodian sitting at the shield control, "but if you would step away from the control panel, I will assure your safety."

Confused but indifferent, the Rodian rose from his chair, and stepped back one pace and then a second.

The two droids moved in. The protocol droid babbled on in binary for a few minutes before he activated the panel. Immediate, frenzied sparks played over the consol. Unphased, the droid opened the service panel and extracted two fried data busses. The panel ceased to convulse and about half of it whirred to life. The messenger droid raced from the bridge with the two fried chunks of circuitry in its courier ports.

Calmly the protocol droid moved to the next panel and repeated the process. By the time he finished activating it, another messenger droid sprinted through the room. Two fresh data busses were installed in less time than it took to speak of it, and shield control hummed to life. "You may return to your station, sir," the droid told the Rodian.

No one noticed the exchange until the protocol droid had repeated the procedure, with little variation, five times and was about to go onto a sixth when the Chief engineer stopped him. "Who gave you authorization to repair those stations?" he demanded.

"Why, the builder of course," the droid said apparently surprised that the Mon Calamari had to ask.

"This is my ship and I am in charge of what is and what isn't fixed. Furthermore, no protocol droid is authorized to maintain sophisticated equipment. We have astromech droids for that."

"I'm sorry, sir, but all the astromech droids are outside the ship at the moment, fixing the hull. I was instructed to short out the bypasses installed since the engagement, and install new circuitry," the droid said.

That got the attention of every engineer within earshot. If every astromech droid was outside, then who was running the reactor? If this protocol droid was replacing circuitry, then who gave it the diagnostic files to recognize the bypasses?

"Who is the builder?" the Chief demanded.

"That'll be Lasck," Miftir said calmly. "He uses that name around droids. They seem eager to please him when 'the builder' comes around."

A messenger droid scurried up to the protocol droid with a fresh load of circuit boards and an audio message in Lasck's distinctive rumble. "Doing fine, CR-12, I need you to tell the station officers to shut down their systems to standby once they run a full power test. Could you see to it that they test them one at a time? That would help out a great deal down here."

"Have that messenger droid take this comlink to Lasck, and tell him to call me when he gets it," the Chief engineer ordered CR-12.

It took a while, but Lasck's voice eventually called the Chief Engineer over the comlink. "Yes, Chief, I'm listening," Daub said.

"Get out of Engineering, Lasck," the Chief ordered.

"Can do," Daub said cheerfully. "I've been out of there for a while now."

Everyone, including Miftir this time, was stunned. "Who's running the reactor then?" the Chief asked.

"I got a heavy lifter, and an EG-6 running the engines," Daub answered. "Between the two of them they'll manage."

Horrified the Chief shouted into the comlink, "You can't do that! The reactor was scrammed less than an hour ago!"

"Then they don't have much power to manage, Chief. Don't worry. The startup on Event Horizon motivators is just a scaled down version of what we're doing here. The heavy lifter will make sure the EG-6 keeps a proper scale in mind," Daub said calmly. "What you need to worry about is the sublight engines. The nozzles severed their control lines some time ago."

"And just what do you expect me to do about it form here?" the Chief bellowed. "You have every access to engineering blocked off."

"I'm replacing the shrouds that were burned off the control lines. Having air in here would only spread radiation so I'm fixing that before I let you back down here. What I need you to do is set the nozzles to dry dock mode and point them away from me while I replace the control leads. I'll have a droid string the lines back to the main hub."

The Chief was about to begin fuming again, but the third watch Chief touched his shoulder to get his attention. "That will work won't it, Chief?" he asked.

Still enraged the Chief snapped, "Of coarse it will work! But…"

Seva stepped in. Behind her ruined face lay an intrigued expression. "How soon can he repair them that way?" she asked.

"Not long," the Second Watch Chief admitted. "Less than a day, hours maybe," he speculated. "He'll need the control hubs repaired and tied into navigation before we can return to running mode. I hadn't thought to look those over since we've been adrift.

"See to it," Seva ordered.

The third watch Chief speculated: "We don't know if the nav control is working yet."

Alarmed, the Chief Engineer asked, "Didn't you check against the gyro in the planetarium?"

"No," the Mon Calamari admitted, "I've been trying to keep the pressure down in the reactor core."

"Get over there," the Chief ordered, "take as many as you need."

"I was going to do that myself, Chief," Lasck said through the comlink.

Before the Chief could unload on Daub, Seva stepped in. "We'll handle it from here, Mr. Lasck. What will you be addressing next?"

"The logical choice would be the power leads severed to the weapons across the ship. Tying off those loose cables would make the ship easier to move about in."

"Is that true?" Seva asked. "I thought the sections we sealed off were from hull breaches." While she was not quite so ignorant as to believe this statement, even as she made it, Seva could see the Chief begin to order his thoughts rather than wasting his efforts on the procedural matters endemic to the _Independence_.

"No we have whole sections sealed off for safety reasons. Most of the damage we suffered was around the engines, hangars, and weapons array. The most extensive damage was on the array, but I felt the need to get under way more important than the weapons," the Chief said.

"I can have the squadron crews work on the hangars until you have personnel available to finish the job," Seva offered.

Fully distracted now, the Chief looked grateful, "That would help out a great deal. I can give them a list of the major damage in flight control. If they could begin with…"

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"_Home One _is on station," the duty officer said late that night. A loud cheer roared out of tired throats from one end of the ship to the other. A gentle shudder from the floor and bulkheads informed the crew that the _Independence_ was underway again after three days adrift. Thanks to Lasck's talent for troubleshooting, the ship almost darted out of orbit with more dexterity than she had before committing to battle. Thanks to Captain Kect's genius for keeping personnel eagerly busy, the crew was both energized and jubilant. With Lasck leading the way, the engineers rushed to their work with gusto. He didn't order them about, but he took on the hardest, most frustrating jobs and did them with astonishing speed. The engineers followed behind him with a clear-cut sense of mission as everything he did delineated tasks in an easy to follow order. To oversimplify it: he made the job easier by making them think about the smaller jobs that had to be done behind him. He assaulted the big picture and the most daunting challenges, and left small jobs behind him.

Captain Kect organized the crew while the engineers assigned priorities. She kept everyone focused on the task at hand by smoothing over tempers, exuding confidence, and generally keeping confusion at bay. In her experience, crewmembers would follow orders they understood better than ones that sounded arbitrary. She made everyone understand their stake and their contribution to the overall picture. In some cases she inflated the importance of one person a bit to encourage them, but not so much for them to loose touch with the others.

Compared to the _Intrepid,_ the _Independence _was a cumbersome outfit. But they were a large crew, and she was able to use more crewmen for the same things to speed the work along. In the past she had to think more clearly how to use people for an elegant solution. But now she could throw large teams against a problem and get the same results. It turned into a contest to see if the engineers could work ahead of Lasck, and by doing so emerge with a moral victory against the erratic ex-Imperial. But Lasck kept them tantalized all day until everything was done. In his wake, the engineers raced about smaller tasks in a varied frenzy while he led them on a steady march to completion. For Captain Kect this provided the most entertaining sideshow. While she never spoke to Lasck, she nonetheless was driven by his direction all day. The Chief and his people coordinated their efforts through her, and always looked for a way to overtake or bypass the man. This translated into her giving out a list of what he had done against what they had done. She acted as scorekeeper between Lasck and the Engineers for half the day before the squadron crews began to get in on the act. Determined to make a show of themselves, they unloaded labor on the hangars all day. They resolved to repair them before the Engineers could sweep in. Privately they wished to tear the hangars back to the furthest bulkhead out and rebuild them to better suit their needs. The _Independence_'s engineers had stonewalled the flight crews for years against their lists of improvements; now a golden opportunity lay wide open for them to remake the hangars in their own image. Seva was delighted to indulge them.

At the end of a very long day, almost starting over into a new one, the main engines rumbled to life again, and Lasck emerged from his informal (and largely esoteric) race with the engineers the clear victor. To add injury to insult, he finished out the hangars before the first watch entered their new flight control booth.

Not to say the _Independence _ran like new. She was virtually defenseless. The beating she received at the hands of the Imperial fleet had all but crippled her. Navigation was a total loss and was handled by a shuttle flying ahead of her like a shepherd. Her entire weapons array was shut down, but that was merely to accommodate repairs. About a third of her turbolasers and a tenth of her ion cannons were completely smashed. They would need replacing soon if Admiral Miftir intended to raid Coruscant, but that was only rumor. She could launch fighters, but in the mad dash to repair the hangars, the fighters had been ignored. They had also been so badly shuffled about that untangling them would be a chore in itself.

The navigation issue was critical. At sublight speeds the shepherd system would do, but a jump to light speed was out of the question. In desperation the Chief engineer turned to Lasck again.

He was found under a B-Wing fixing the gyroscopic cockpit servos the pilot had damaged inside the _Death Star_. "It'll cost you, Chief," Lasck warned.

"You're a prisoner last time I checked, Lasck," the Chief commented, "You don't have the leverage to bargain with."

"You misunderstand me," Lasck said diplomatically. "I'll need a workshop and a Given to fabricate a nav computer from scratch."

"If I had a Given we'd be on our way already," the Chief sulked.

"Ask Miftir," Lasck suggested. "He can assign us one."

The Given were a doleful looking race adept at upper level mathematics. Daub had dealt with them before, and respected their talents. So great was their prowess with math that Given manufactured starships devoid of nav computers, the Given having no need for them. But they were rare in the Alliance ranks, and all of them were pressed into cryptography or research and development.

"What about a workshop?" Daub asked.

The Chief thought about it. He thought about it for a long time since he had not slept in two days and thought was a foggy notion. He finally asked, "Where?"

"Give me the space above the main hangar access, and I promise you won't regret it," Daub said.

"Planning to escape, Lasck?" the Chief asked.

"No, but overhauling starships will be easier," Daub said.

The space he wanted would do, but its real purpose was bulk storage. Space aboard being at a premium, the large compartment would put outfitting the ship at a disadvantage. Space had to be made elsewhere, but where and how?

"I'll use the room as my quarters if you like," Daub offered.

"Don't you mean your cell?" the Chief said.

Daub didn't answer. The offer was made. They could take it or leave it.

"Alright you can have the room, but I'll need two meters off its short beam for storage," the Chief said.

"I'll move the bulkheads today," Daub said.

"Make me a nav computer first," the Chief ordered.

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Miftir reinstalled guards inside Daub's workshop. Not that he wanted to or thought it necessary. Daub's principle interest was atonement not escape, but Miftir had to bend to pressure from Borsk Fey'leya when the Bothan representative discovered how Lasck was being treated. Daub barely noticed. He was too busy. After he built the nav computer, a Given came aboard to program it. After he moved back the bulkhead for the Chief's requested storage, a dozen small jobs were waiting for his attention.

Starships are never fixed; they just attain a better state of repair. Everything that could be brought to him was dumped in his workshop. Droids helped with the backlog. A little power droid followed him around the shop acting as a combination test station/ toolbox. EG-4's top was covered with tools that the boxy little droid balanced on his flat top while he powered up everything Daub set in front of him. He stood for this treatment with an apparent eagerness. If one cared to know, Daub had saved EG-4 from the scrap heap. He had all but jumped in surprise when he found the little guy. EG-4s were very rare. The more popular EG-6 was far more widespread, and the EG-5s were specialist power units for military hardware. EG-4 was a walking, chirping fusion generator, but most important to Daub he was the only all-purpose power droid ever made. An EG-6 was all but worthless in a space dock, and an EG-5 would fry delicate circuitry with its output. EG-4 had a large processor and fine tuned fusion and output modules that made the type versatile but heavy and expensive. Few of the droids had been made, and Daub was delighted to have one. Unfortunately EG-4 was hobbled by a complex set of manipulator arms that were hopelessly mangled when a TIE fighter crashed into the hangar. Lacking the spare parts, the maintenance shop decided to scrap the droid, but Daub snatched EG-4 out of the junk bin before he was melted down.

"Power that engine up, EG-4," Daub said. On the workbench a B-Wing's Quadex Kyromaster engine flared to life. He had seventy of these things to overhaul before he could start on the J-77 engines off the A-Wings. The engine tried to fire off, but only cut out as safety routines triggered a shutdown. "You think the check valve to the safety relay is clogged shut?" he asked EG-4.

The blocky droid almost bubbled with enthusiasm. While Veril Line Systems had installed a doleful vocal unit in EG-4 that made the droid sound both stupid and melancholy, Daub had been forced to replace it with one off an R4 unit. The match was not altogether feasible, but it made EG-4 sound cheerful.

"He says: He thinks so because the power he is feeding the engine is flowing properly. There are no power spikes or contagion from corrupted lines," CR-12 told Daub.

Daub nodded thoughtfully then said, "An astromech can manage that without much fuss." He turned to an H-70 heavy lifer droid, "Take this one back to R2-R9 back in the hangar and I'll send a message along with you with my recommendation."

H-70 gently cradled the JT-32 in his massive arms, lowered it onto its pallet, and moved slowly out of the shop about a hand span above the floor.

Daub used a winch to raise the next engine onto the workbench, and the whole process began again. A messenger droid raced into the shop, and a recorded set of beeps and whistles erupted from the tiny droid. "R2-R10 reports that all of Grey Squadron's B-Wings are repaired," CR-12 said.

"Good. F-7, tell R2-R9 that the engine H-70 is bringing him right now needs a new check valve for the safety switches line. Also tell R2-R10 to start sending the freight droids up here if they need a stitch or two. When he's done with the A-Wings, have him come up here also."

F-7 raced from the room. He almost tripped Lando Calrissian on his way out, but he darted out of the way and bolted down the corridor.

Lando could scarcely credit what he saw. Daub's workshop thrummed with activity, almost all of it from droids. A line of the machines waited patiently to be repaired in the corridor. Some were fit for the scrap heap, but all of them hoped the "builder" would make them good as new. Directly in front of the door was an aging DD-40 maintenance droid of antique vintage. Lando thought time shouldn't be wasted on such antiquated garbage, and the sight of the DD-40 annoyed him deeply. "What is that doing out there?" he asked Daub indicating DD-40.

Daub looked over to the door and saw the rusting antique at the head of the line. "DD-40s are useful for incidental repairs, General. In fact I have six of them running about the ship right now."

"It's scrap," Lando declared. "It'll be slow and in the way. Why are you wasting your time on it?"

Daub shrugged, "He's quiet and reliable," he said. "I send DD-40s into personal quarters to repair stuff while the crew is sleeping."

Lando was aghast, "While they sleep?"

"Yes," Daub replied. "It takes a while to train a droid to manage that kind of discretion, but DD-40 is the best there is."

"Sounds like an invasion of privacy," Lando said.

Daub returned his attention to the engine on his workbench. "Stuff still breaks weather a person is awake or asleep." He closed the access hatch he was working in, and told EG-4 to power the engine up. The JT-32 hummed to life and EG-4 beeped a positive prognosis. While EG-4 powered down the engine, Daub turned back to the General. "What can I do for you, sir?" he asked.

"The ships just arrived from Mon Calimari. I would like you to look them over," Lando said.

Daub shook his head and motioned at the guards. "They'll get in the way," he said. Turning back to his work he motioned for DD-40 to come inside.

"I need a ship to command Gold Squadron from," Lando objected.

Daub shook his head. "Give these guys a break," he said indicating the guards, "that'll move things along. Or better yet send some of my Wookiee friends here to guard me if you must keep me locked down. These poor guys are exhausted."

Lando was curious. What was it about those Wookiees that made them so protective of Lasck? "How do you know all those Wookiees, Lasck? They all can't have come from the _Death Star_. Ruthum had been stationed here for years, and he knew you right away."

"My crimes and my victims, General," Daub said with a snort of chagrin. "I'm a terrible man. Didn't you know that?"

"I know you were deeply involved with the _Death Star_, Lasck, but what does that have to do with Wookiees?" Lando asked.

"I wasn't always the _Death Star's _builder, General. I owned slaves too," Daub said quietly. The shame in his voice was clear, yet distant. It was clear he didn't like to discuss it, but he was resigned to telling the gambler/General if he wished it.

Lando's eyes widened in surprise, "And these Wookiees were your property?" he asked making the connection.

"Three hundred in all," Daub admitted. "I bought them when I was a Master Chief." He paused then added darkly, "I'm not sure how many survived."

"You're telling me that you owned all the Wookiees aboard?" Lando asked incredulous.

"Not all of them," Daub said, "just their family members in one way or another."

"I can't believe you would do such a thing," Lando protested.

Daub brightened, "That's exactly what my brother said," he said cheerfully.


End file.
